NGE: The Long, Hard Kill
by ApExPhOeNiX20
Summary: AU, OOC, Post Third Impact. Warning: violence, strong sexuality, strong language, drug references and usage. A reluctant survivor of 3rd Impact, Shinji spirals down a path of destruction, and will be damned if he walks it alone. 7th Chapter up.
1. 1st Slug: ADAK

Story Written by ApexPhoenix20

-Last Call Productions Presents-

_**NGE: The Long, Hard Kill**_

**1st Slug:** _**A.D.A.K.**_

_A memory._

_The sun is hot and the air is crisp, clear blue surrounding us. In front of me, Toji and Kensuke keep arguing animatedly over which Hollywood actress they would sleep with first if they had the chance, Jessica Alba or Scarlett Johansson. "Are you tellin' me, Kenny, if that sweet little blonde wants ya ta slip her some dick, you would refrain from pounding her nether regions for a whole week straight? You HAFTA like man-ass."_

"_Have you ever seen Sin City, Toji? Wait, I was with you at the rental place when we picked it out-you were busy dry-humping my sofa for, what was it, two hours straight?"_

_I laugh as they carry on, much to the embarrassment of Hikari, the class rep, and Asuka, the warm breeze gently swaying long, silken red strands of her hair as she moves around in that light yellow dress I met her in that day on an aircraft carrier. "You stooges keep acting like monkeys in heat, and we'll leave your pathetic asses here with Shinji-baka, isn't that right, Hikari?" _

"_That's exactly what's gonna happen if you don't stop acting like an idiot, Toji," Hikari adds, her arms crossed as she stamps past them. Asuka walks by me, the scent of raspberries trailing in her wake. She shoots a quick scowl at me as I make eye contact. Something sparks in those deep blue eyes, something fierce and intense and alive-something wonderful. I quickly focus on my shoe-laces, clearing my throat._

"_Quit trying to stare at my breasts, you pervert," Asuka quips as she joins Hikari at the hot-dog stand on the street corner by the carnival we're all headed to, but she sounds more flirtatious than she does angry. I am intrigued, and I begin to hope that maybe she'll be nice to me. Maybe even let me hold her hand, share a Ferris wheel cab…get lost in the warmth of each other's lips. A sudden rush of guilt hits me, and I try to change topics. I wind up making myself feel even guiltier._

"_Hey," I say as I fall in step behind her, eyes locked on her slender, curvaceous body. "Shouldn't we at least call Rei? I've got her number, it wouldn't take long…"_

"_Rei?" Asuka says, making no attempt to hide her disdain for her. "Why would you call that emotionless doll over here for? She'd probably just talk about synch-ratios and Eva tactics, if she even spoke at all." She sips a bottle of lemonade while Hikari shuffles uneasily. She looks at a roller-coaster dip in the distance, munching on a pink tuft of cotton candy._

"_I don't know, Asuka," she says politely, trying not to offend her friend. "She seems like she's just shy, that's all. I mean, she always polite to me, anyway."_

"_I'm sure she's the most polite little automaton ever created by science," Asuka says as turns on me abruptly hooks her right arm with mine. The smell of raspberries is almost intoxicating. She stares me dead in the eye._

"_Don't you even think of daring to do some of the weird, pervy shit you and the other two stooges talk about to me, or I'll fix you like a dog on the spot, you hear? It's just gentlemen-like for a lady to be accompanied by a man while she's out on the town." She smiles that devilish smile of hers, and I can't help but play along._

_Toji and Kensuke play-fight a bit longer, and stop as abruptly as they started when Kensuke pushes Toji into Hikari, Toji's hands pushing up on Hikari's breasts. "Toji, you goddamned pervert, you better hope there's a hospital with a ball-transplant machine around the corner, 'cuz you're gonna NEED IT!"_

"_Waaagh, Kenny, I'm gonna kick--wait. Did you say, 'ball-transplant machine'?"_

_We all pause for a moment, and laugh so hard, I wipe away tears. "What?" Hikari says through fits of giggling. "It was all I can think of on short notice."_

_We walk into the carnival, Asuka hooked on my arm, and I can't remember feeling so alive._

* * *

The air is clean and brisk, and the sun shines high above. Overall, it's a great day for a kill, but some coffee wouldn't suck.

"Please, you don't wanna do this. I got cash- you like cash, right? Of course, you do. That's why you kill in the first place."

He keeps talking, trying so hard to save his empty toilet bowl of a life, but I'm not really listening.

One thing you learn quick about this kind of business, you get a lot of this shit. Low-lives and piss-ants will try anything to get you to not pull the trigger. Like bribing, for example.

"Hey, what's he paying you? W-whatever he's paying you, I can double it-TRIPLE it even, for you to whack whoever the fuck hired you, ok?"

The train of thought with these schmucks is that you'll whore yourself out at the mere mention of a dollar. Not true. Guys who mention sudden wealth as a pistol kisses their forehead couldn't even afford to buy the bullets you'll cap 'em with.

"HEY! You-you can't do this to me, you hear me?"

Denial. I can't even say it's funny anymore, I've been through this same riot act so many times. For good measure, I bring the butt of my pistol down hard across the bridge of his nose. He yelps and falls back down on the pavement, scrabbling to right himself. I wag a finger. He stays right where he is.

"I'm big around here, you fucking hear me! BIG! Touch me, you fucking son-of-a-bitch cocksucker, and the cops won't even find enough of you to fill a shot glass!"

And yeah, the empty, meaningless threats. He's bawling right now, on his knees with his hands held up in front of him. A distinct, pungent stench reaches my nose, and I smile down at my mark, this pale, unshaven, long black-haired mess of a kid with a black nit skully that has 'Slipknot' etched in red stitching on the front. Probably bought into his hype, too, about being big out here in Central Islip.

No one could give less of a shit if you're 'big' in Central Islip. I know I don't.

"I can smell your fear, kid, and by 'fear', I mean shit," I say as I take a quick glance around while he continues to sob. "Besides, you think your pals, or _anyone_ for that matter is gonna find you here? Hell, you think they'll give enough of a shit to look?" This alleyway in a derelict car factory out on Long Island was deserted since I hauled this fuck's ass out of his shit-hole flat this morning, and we're still the only people here. I look back my mark. I don't know his name. I don't care to.

"D-Don't kill me, please, don't kill me. I'll give you anything, man, anything you want, please, just don't kill me…you…you don't even _give_ a shit, do you? You just do your…'job', then get your pay. You don't even care about the family I'll lea--"

"Are you fucking kidding me? You _really_ gonna lecture me about whose family will miss who? Did _you_ think about that when you did what you did?" A goddamned junk dealer accuses me of being heartless and cruel. Guys like him, no less.

I draw the line here.

I look at him through my black-tinted rectangular shades like an elephant just sky-dived out of his asshole. Then, while still keeping my customized Colt .45 caliber handgun steady just inches away from his forehead with my right hand, I rummage through my pant pockets and produce a picture of a VERY attractive girl with my left. She couldn't have been more than 17 years of age, and her silky blonde hair goes down to her shoulders. Hazel cat-like eyes. I throw it down in front of him. He looks at me in equal parts shock and puzzlement.

Just as a side-note, Colt .45s are definitely the most American guns out there, with the exceptions of the M1A1 Thompson and most Magnums. They're a bit weighty but reliable, and for seven rounds per clip with one helluva stopping power per bullet, that's a bargain at the price it's sold for-in or outside of gun shops. They are without a doubt the 'Don't FUCK with me' guns of the millennium. Having this bad boy custom-made to hold five more rounds and sport a longer barrel definitely delivers this message.

"H-huh? W-w-who the fuck is this?"

He obviously doesn't get the whole 'don't fuck with me' part. He knows exactly who the girl in the picture is.

"What, did she make that little of an impression on you, that you can't even remember the last girl you killed? You _must_ have thought she was hot at the time, though, 'cuz from the coroner's report-a good friend of mine, by the way-you forced yourself inside the three body cavities big enough for the male penis to fit into. _Repeatedly_." I spit the last part out hard like venom so that he can sum up what I feel about what he's done. I ain't here to play like I'm some sort of knight in shining armor, God no, especially with all the shit _I've_ pulled off since I was fourteen, but scum like him need killing like this world needs a good purging to set it all right again. Getting paid to do him in doesn't suck, either. He knows just what kind of vile son-of-a-bitch he is, just like I know the best way to deal with his kind.

"Aww, man, _I_ didn't do that bitch in, man! I don't even know who that bitch _is_, man! You-you-you got the wrong dude, alright?" His voice takes on a high, whiny tone like he's strung out. Chances are that he is.

"Her name was Brianna Merrimann. She went to the State University of Stony Brook, her first year, but hasn't been seen in weeks. People say they saw her last with her dirt-bag of a 'bad-boy' boyfriend. When I dragged you out of your apartment this morning, I saw her picture by your bed-side, in a tacky heart-shaped frame, next to _two _syringes. Sure, you're a major dope-head, but even you can't be that fried to not remember the girl who called you her _boyfriend_. You got any more bullshit to sling my way?"

His wide-eyed stare says it all. He knows he's gonna die. After a moment of what I guess is clarity, he whimpers as he shakes his head slowly.

I take a quick look around at my surroundings. Amidst all the broken junk and wooden crates in this puddle-filled alley, there is a rusted crowbar lying half-sunken in a pothole a step behind me.

Yeah, that'll do it.

I heft it up with my free hand and with the pointed prongs facing him smash it hard against his crotch with a flesh-ripping, dick-bursting whack. He screams, oh God he screams, but I jam my left foot in his gut to knock the wind out of him.

While he vomits and weeps, convulsions borne out of fear and pain wracking his body, my mind drifts as I thumb off the safety, and not for the first time am I glad Misato can't see this thing I've become. I'm glad none of them, not Asuka, or Rei, or most of my old friends are around to see just how 'quiet, ol' Shinji' turned out ten years later.

I get my head back together. Show my game-face. Go through the motions.

**KLICK**

"Trust me when I say you _really_ don't know how much I'm enjoying this."

"You f-f-fucking _monster_," he wheezes in his throat at me. The scum-fuck's spraying blood through his gritted teeth talking to me. Pain ebbs out of his voice as steadily as blood does from his lips. Fuck if I know how that's hurtin' him. Fuck if I care. "That's all-_KAFF_- you fucking are, an ugly, shameless -_KAFF-KAFF_- mmmotherfucking soulless little cocksu--"

" Yeah, _that's_ a good choice of last words."

"You gotta be shi--"

_**BLAM!...BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM!**_

I turn his face into a giant exit wound.

I stand there for a while, gun still pointed at the corpse, looking at him lying face-down in a puddle of murky red water. Blood, its scent thick and strong, reminds me all too much of floating around in LCL. I close my eyes, almost feeling the controls of my Unit-01 in my hands. My palms are clammy and cold, and I open my eyes.

There are times when I wonder if all of this was inevitable; if this was the only way possibly left for me other than just another teenage suicide statistic. A quick flicker of memory sails by my thoughts, the scent of raspberries and an image of a red-head who never heard me tell her how stunning she looked when she smiled so vivid and real, I ignore the fact that there's a dead man at my feet.

I push it away; wrestle the image of another life I never took advantage of back into the darkness, with all the other things I tell myself happened to somebody else.

I look back up at the clear blue morning, and draw a Camel out, and light it. All that tough-guy bullshit about starting your morning with a good, solid kill aside, nothing beats the restorative power of coffee.

The sound of sirens-far enough for me to know they won't get here in time to catch me, but close enough to know I should start hauling ass-shakes me back to reality. I walk around the corner to my car- a blacked-out '72 Charger. Suffice to say, this more than gets the job done when it comes to out-running the cops. I open the door, toss my Colt Custom in the passenger seat, get in, and jet. An acronym that hasn't crossed my mind in long time comes to mind as hit the left turn doing sixty, picking up speed towards the freeway-A.D.A.K.- Another day,…Another kill.

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Coroner's Note:

Feel free to review. Next "Slug" coming your way. It's been more than a year since I up-loaded this first slug, and I decided to edit the hell out of it and slap it back up here.

As for past comments on my fuck-up of calling the Desert Eagle an American weapon, I took it out, but I'm going to use that earlier screw-up in a later chapter. BTW, I need a beta reader if anyone's interested. Check my profile for my email if interested. Later!


	2. 2nd Slug: Payment

Last Call Productions presents…

_**NGE: Long, Hard Kill**_

Word from the author: …So…I've been a lazy douche. What's it been since I last posted, a year or two? To top it off, there's a new EVA movie series breaking out in Japan, something about Evagelion: Rebuild or whatever. I only found this out once I picked up a recent copy of Yoshiyuki Sadamoto's EVA manga. Saw some YouTube clips, even. I saw these as signs to stop dicking around and get back to work. As a word of caution, I AM going to be switching between first and third person narrative-style with as much frequency as every other chapter—just an experiment, really, but I'd like to think it helps story-telling purposes.

This next chapter is in 3rd Person Narrative-style. Next is 1st Person.

Thanks for reading, Welcome back. Constructive criticisms only, thank you kindly. Oh yeah, no flames. Enjoy.

Oh yeah, need a beta, if anyone's interested…email me at 

**_2nd Slug: Payment._**

The brick-faced colonial brownstone the blackened '72 Charger pulled up to did nothing to hide any hint of the owner's financial success. Neither did the sandstone walls, or the golden gate he had to park in front of for five minutes while the men in the security booth called Mrs. Merrimann to make sure she knew about her visitor. It had been at least a day or two since his last job, and goddamn, was Shinji Ikari in dire need of a bed. He idly mused while dragging out the last rich puffs from a Camel that he could make out a wall of camera screens with a fat guard lazily watching from time to time through the wide front window of the booth. He'd have to raze the whole booth before he left, Shinji reckoned as he jabbed the butt of his cigarette out on top of his dashboard with a hammer-like flick of his wrist as the pasty rent-a-cop let him pass.

Dark brown aviator sunglasses hid equally dark eyes from both sunlight and world as he walked past a brick-made mailbox and an intricately laid arrangement of various flowers he doubted he could find in even the most accomplished florist shop. The family name was spelled out within the precariously arranged flower bed, and he thought about how the owner must have stood over the gardeners for hours on that lawn, making damn sure the floral arrangement was as flawless as the neatly cut grass, and the trimmed low bushes lining the brick walkway that day.

The flower bed was wild with weeds. Leaves lay scattered all over the unkempt grass, and got stuck in the dried twiggy areas of the dead prickly bushes, untrimmed and unremembered. He reached the top of the sandstone steps and rang the brass door-bell in laid on the dark polished wooden door. The bell sung hollowly in the house, the notes of a cheery tune lost to thick grey sky above. Shinji set the black suitcase he had brought with him in his right hand down by his leg while his left rummaged for yet another Camel.

The door swung open to a slender brunette in her forties. He could tell the gin she was drinking the night before from the scent of her. She was practically bathed in it, though his nose caught the scent of some perfume. Chanel No.5 and Seagram's. Her red-rimmed brown eyes had bags under them, and continued to blink as if to better adjust to what little daylight there was. Mrs. Merrimann stood in the doorway for a moment, as if at once perplexed and disappointed to find out there was still a world outside her home. She glared at the young man standing in front of her.

"Get in. Liquor's on the table, help yourself."

"Too early for me. Gotta long drive out ahead of me, anyway. The money?"

"Also on the table. In, the neighbors'll see you."

Shinji was escorted to the dining hall where he saw plump stacks of hundreds, an unzipped, half-filled duffel bag, and a liter bottle of Tanqueray on a long mahogany table. The drinking glasses twinkled off the reflection of the flames lit in the fireplace. "You have any proof before I give you that absurd amount of cash?" Mrs. Merrimann said as she took her seat by the fire, watching ember occasionally pop out of the crackling logs. Shinji found it a small wonder there wasn't a glass in her hand.

"You mean you couldn't find the number in the Yellow Pages for bargain-priced contract killers? Damn, what can the dollar buy you anymore, huh?" He began stacking the rest of the money into the bag, glancing back at her. Not like he had any particular cause to worry about her, but it wouldn't be the first time someone would try to pull a fast one on him like trying to kill him and keep the money. "Besides, your proof's in the suitcase." He stopped packing the cash and brought it to her, clacking off the brass security latches and pulling out a copy of Newsday. Mrs. Merrimann glanced at the cover, spotting a headline in the right corner box that read, "Killed In Daylight: Grisly remains found in Islip-story,A5". She slowly thumbed her way to the article, seeing a black and white picture of a taped-off crime scene- there was a crowbar jutting up from a puddle, from what she could tell, and spent bullet casings lying on the pavement around a white chalk outline.

Mrs. Merrimann continued to read, her face shrinking and contorting as the sobs came. Shinji watched impassively, allowing her to continue with her grief as she pulled her knees into her chest, clutching at them while her haggard form shook steadily. " Oh God, oh God,…Jesus, I can'tIcan'tI CAN'TICAN'TICAN'TIWON'T I d-don't, I don't…I don't want to," she finished, her voice shaky and spent.

"I..don't…want..to….Kill me too," Mrs. Merrimann said after minutes of sobbing silently. "Another day's a waste."

" I charge extra for that," he said as he went back to filling the bag.

"How do you even know I gave you all the money? You don't even count."

"Had your bank accounts hacked into. You made a withdrawal totaling our agreed amount three days ago. Put a tracker on your car too, last time I was here, so I'd know where'd you be at all times. Top all of that off, you're a card woman, Mrs. Merrimann. Sure, you carry some cash to leave bad tips at posh restaurants and the like, but you leave your heavy sending to the power of plastic."

Her cold laugh was as harsh sounding as her sobs had been. "You're a single-minded motherfucker, aren't you? Doesn't any of it get to you, the loss, the suffering, the--"

Shinji's voice was low and terse. "I kill for a living. What did you expect?"

The last of the cash loaded into the bag, Shinji turned around to face Mrs. Merrimann. His face was taut and wet, the firelight cascading off his flexing jaw muscles as he contemplated what to say next. After a long pause, he sighed and took off his glasses. Their eyes met.

" I can't know what you're feeling; I don't want to," he said, the tone of his voice gentle. "I've known enough loss to last me through the next life. But to lose a daughter…that is a tragedy so harrowing I welcome being spared from."

The crackling embers of charred wood popping in the fireplace was the only sound heard.

"We're gonna do this my way. Sit back down, Mrs. Merrimann," he said, replacing his sunglasses. Backing away warily to her chair by the fireplace, she saw him walk behind her, could hear him getting further away. " Where's your kitchen?" he asked. Mrs. Merrimann blinked. "Down the hall, to the left."

"Any gas stoves, or electric in there?"

" …Was gonna have them changed over, but yeah, there's still gas stoves in there."

" Perfect."

Shinji walked into her kitchen, and noted dully that some of the most famed restaurants in New York City weren't able to afford half the cooking equipment that made up her kitchen. Still, flush against the wall, was the gas stoves she had told him about, probably not changed since the first owners of the house came, he thought. He turned all the knobs on, listening to the slight click on the stove burners releasing gas, but not igniting. He quickly rejoined Mrs. Merrimann in the dining hall.

"Look into the fire. Look deep," Shinji said as he ripped off the fake backing of the suitcase and connected wires to a lump of plastique. He set the timer. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw her fingers dig into the arms of the chair. "Will this hurt? You killing me?" she hoarsely whispered as her suddenly sunken features were illuminated by the fire. Shinji noticed for the first time just how fragile she looked, in her satin black robe, gaunt and rigid as she waited for him to deliver the killing stroke. He walked over and stood behind her, slowly slipping his fingers down the head-rest and into her hair. She recoiled slightly, a low whimpering escaping her lips. "Shh-sh-sh-sh-sh-shhh," he said as gently caressed her hair, feeling her relax into his hands, in defeat. "You've known so much pain, so suddenly," Shinji continued, noting that she was beginning to cry again, silently, her shoulders shuddering.

"Tell me," he said as his hands sank lower, tenderly rubbing her shoulder muscles, "about the happiest memory you have of your daughter."

Her crying stopped. Her amber eyes were locked on the incandescent flames that leapt around in the fireplace. "She graduated at the top of her class at her academy," she said, almost absorbed in his caresses. "Valedictorian. I sat out there on her graduation day in the bleachers, and my God, I can't tell you how beautiful she looked. Through her…addiction…she climbed ahead, got off the heroin, worked hard day and night. She even made a countdown of how many days she'd have to make her speech, though you would have thought her crazy at the time to even consider graduating early on. 'You know, Ma, I've got a lot to make up, to make right, but hell or high water, I'm gonna make that speech up there, and people are gonna know what I've done, and know nothing can hold me back.' Oh, when she finished her speech that day, everyone was clapping and shouting, nobody had a dry eye."

"How did you feel?" Shinji asked, still kneading her shoulders gently.

She was silent, lost in thought. A thin smile crossed her lips, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Proud," she said. "Complete."

"That's all you can really ask for in life," Shinji said, staring into the flames.

His hands snapped her neck effortlessly. Her expression was one of tranquility. He laid her head back gently on the head-rest, closing her eyes. He thought she looked like she was sleeping. Shinji then reached down to her and closed her robe around the limp form of Mrs. Merrimann.

On his way out of the gated community, he slipped into the guard booth without any trouble and killed the pair of guards who saw him, and razed the booth to the ground, but it felt all too much like he was going through the motions. Shinji Ikari lit another Camel, and did his best on his way back to New York City via the Long Island Expressway to forget everything about Mrs. Merrimann altogether.

He found that he couldn't.

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Coroner's Note: Hoped you liked it, gonna make damn sure the next one's up as soon as humanely possible. Read, review, rave…and somebody tell me what the deal with the "Rebuild EVA" thing. Later.


	3. 3rd Slug: Business of the Day

Last Call Productions Presents

_**NGE: The Long, Hard Kill**_

Author's Note:

Something I'd like to say. I know damn well this isn't wholly an original idea. You know it, I've known it from the story's inception. I mean, how many stories have you sat back painfully through where Shinji, a normally timid and reserved guy, plays some form of badass like his last name was Stallone or Schwarzenegger or even Willis? It's as done as Dustin Diamond's ("Screech") acting career. When I encounter a story like that, it always seems to revolve around the concept of Shinji blasting dudes, or fellow EVA storyline characters, simply as a way to communicate his rage at them. The inevitable shower of bullets that follows is his final and ultimate triumph over them. It seems so high school, no offense to those of you in that particular age bracket. It comes off as "Yeah, I'm a badass with a gun! Fuck you daddy and red-head and blue-haired bitch who won't fuck me! What you gonna do 'bout that?!" That's usually the point, right? If I am missing some nuance of critical character development, let me know, 'cuz that's what I've seen.

I sure as hell ain't no NY Times bestseller here, but there is so much you can do in role like that, especially with Shinji. I want to give him a reason other than petty scorn and comeuppance to do the things he does with a gun in his hands. I want you to understand why he does the stuff he gets up to doing in the coming chapters, with a clear sense of that things have just gone wrong for this guy, and it's a long fall to the bottom. Hell, maybe even empathize with him at some points.

But, if you're here for some brass-cased mayhem, then hey, you hit pay-dirt. By the way, if you need to imagine a uniform for the following scene, think of what the commandos who stormed NERV in the last movie were wearing, just in khaki.

_**3**__**rd**__** Slug: Business of the Day…**_

Lips the color of rubies, of blood, part in a ghastly smile as the creature tears Kingston apart with its bare hands. Kingston's screams cut through all of us, drain any ounce of courage from us-all that's left is the raw queasiness of fear. "Fire, Goddamnit, Fire!" Captain Blackridge half-orders, half-shrills at us as we all try to tear our eyes away from the man-shaped thing emerging from the smoke and rubble of the blown out storefront.

It keeps smiling back at us. I'm frozen, though I'm sure I pissed myself seconds before. I've seen that hideous smile before. I just can't believe its back.

"Squad, fire at fucking will! NOW!" The captain's burst of sustained fire from his M4 shake us out of the cold grip of horror and we let the monster have it. Valdez bounds to my left by some rubble, crouches with the RPG ready to go. "Open wide, mother-fucker! EASE!" We yell back the same word so our ear-drums don't pop from the pressure change caused from firing the weapon. Valdez recoils as he fires.

The bullets don't seem to do it much harm at all-hell, it practically eats it up, despite the sickly pink entry wounds, the bright gashes of blood covering it's mainly white body. It has the head of an eyeless dolphin, with Mick Jagger's lips stitched on its would-be face.

The RPG slows rapidly to a stop in front of it, though I can see it's not for lack of trying. Sparks fly from the nose-cone of the grenade trying to break through the barrier, but I know with a certain and paralyzing horror there's no way it could.

It's an A.T. Field.

Static-mangled bugles blurt out a loud and obnoxious good morning to me as I bolt up wide awake on my bed. Just like always, my Colt Custom is up with the hammer dropped back before I can blink the sleep out of my eyes. I expect to continue the fight against that thing in real-time, but just like three days ago, and so many months before that, I'm alone in my bedroom. I push the hammer back up and wipe away the ever-present sweat on my forehead with the hand holding my Colt.

Rays of orange-hued streetlight stab into the darkness of my room through the blinds onto my face, and I look at the clock/radio on the small wooden bureau adjacent my bed. The red digital numbers keep blinking 5:30 A.M., and by now the newscaster on the 1010 WINS reads the top news stories of the hour. More and more people keep popping up out of the blue since the events of what some conservative/Christian-leaning media outlets have dubbed "Judgment Day". Still, for all those that suddenly wander back into one of the millions of re-settlement centers and camps set up by all surviving governments and the UN worldwide, there are still millions of other people who haven't been seen since that fateful day 10 years ago. Hell, all of the major cities worldwide just got repopulated about five years back. The same thing happened to this town.

I try not to step on the pieces of shattered from a liter bottle of Jack Daniels near my bed as I make my way towards the window. The fingers of my free hand gently tug the thin plastic blinds down as I peek at the slowly rousing colossus that is this rugged, dirty, beautiful place called New York City.

On my dank corner of Canal Street, I can see some of the richer folk from SoHo drive by in cars that would have paid rent for the next two years for the people who live around me in the adjoining tenement buildings. The sun won't be coming up for another hour and a half, and by the time it does most of the people on my edge of the Chinatown/SoHo border will have already left to work in posh offices in the Financial District, or in the cramped confines of one of the many restaurant kitchens a block or two away. Sanitation workers quickly round up garbage piled on sidewalks, while squad cars squeeze through the already mounting traffic with sirens blaring in response to some distress call not so far away from here.

My fingers leave the blinds as I walk around my bed to pick up my pack of Camels. It's an awkward thing to try to open a stubborn flip-top pack with a gun still in your hands, but I manage and yank out a butt with my mouth like a bird hunting for worms in grass. I toss the pack on my bed, and pick up the olive drab Zippo lighter, try my best to cup the flame with my Colt Custom. The golden engraving of the Great Seal of the United States gives off a soft golden-orange glow in the light of the cigarette's cherry. I toss that back onto the bed once my stoge's been lit.

I look around the room one more time, just to make sure I'm alone. To the right wall of my room, there's a trash bin next to the big, metal desk covered in surveillance photos of guys I've killed and future jobs, strewn under bullets and clips of various sizes. The Ingrams MAC-11 lies disassembled in the center of the desktop, rods, cleaning pipes, and small oil bottles gathered carefully next to it. The muffler-esque silencer attachment lies on a thick wooden shelf above it. To the left of me is the doorway leading to the rest of my apartment, and only a few feet away from that door is the bathroom conveniently located inside my room. I think I heard this type of room set-up being called a master bedroom, but I can't remember when or who said that, so I'll make due not caring to find out if it is. I walk over to the wall in front of me, past the desk and open my walk-in closet. I don't have much when it comes to clothes. Four pairs of jeans, two or three sweaters, a few T-shirts, four suits, and a sock/underwear drawer. Shoes are lined up on a shelf inside. I pull out my usual suit- solid black, white dress shirt, red tie- and head for the bathroom, my gun never leaving my hand the whole time.

I keep all my assorted camouflaged B.D.U.s down in the Armory with the other equipment.

Inside the bathroom, the floor tiles are made of black mica and the faucet and towel rods of brass. I hang my clothes up on a brass hanging peg, take off my boxers, and walk into the bath. Stepping into the center of the oval bath chamber, I yank the rusted brass lanyard to get the in-ceiling showerhead to work, twisting the "HOT" water knob built into the wall. The water hits me, and I just stand there for a few minutes, letting the heat of the jetting water warm me up. The Colt Custom sits with the safety off in a Zip-Lock bag on a mica shelf next to the conditioner and shampoo.

I finish up in the bathroom, get dressed, and take my gun out of the bag. Pressing the safety button back on, I walk over to the coat rack by the door and sling on my dual-holster rig. I'm half-way out the door when I hear a voice behind me.

"In other news, police are still investigating who snuck into an opulent gated community in the Old Westbury region of Long Island and killed a stock-broker to some of Hollywood's most famous stars, along with two private security guards Tuesday morning," blared the newscaster from the radio. "According to Nassau County Police

Department officials, firefighters rushed to extinguish the dual blazes of 49-year-old Annamarie Merrimann's home, along with that of the front security booth of the gated community. Once the fires were extinguished, however, responding officers were greeted to a grisly scene inside the booth, as both guards were found with their throats slit. Later examination by the county medical examiner's office revealed that Merrimann, believed to have died in the fire, had her neck broken. Merrimann, a long-time broker and friend to Hollywood elite such as Will Smith and Brad Pitt among other celebrities, had recently interred her 17-year-old daughter Brianna Merrimann, who was tragically found dead alongside the Sagtikos Parkway three weeks earlier. Police ask anyone with information regarding this crime to call Crimestoppers at 1-800-244-TIPS, or 1-800-244-8477. All calls will be kept anonymous."

I jab my finger down on the snooze button, and push away the memory of a body that all too much looked like it was sleeping by the fire.

Outside, it's drizzling and the sky is cast in a lazy blue-grey. The streetlights are still on, and I walk up the block in the cold February morning. Glancing at my watch, I figure if I hustle a little bit, I can make it to Alfo's place, located right above his liquor store, before he opens up for the day.

Alfonzo Gutierrez, "Alfo" to everyone this side of town, makes a killing selling information as much as he does trading bottles for bucks to winos. Hell, he's the damn mascot of the entire neighborhood. The local patrolmen love him, the soprano-wannabes like making business with him, even the legit "made men" dinosaurs that were kicking it with 'Lucky' Luciano back in the day even like him enough to let him do business at their 'premium discount rate'-nine out of twenty dollars made there goes right back to them. I think they call themselves 'La Famiglia Vieja' or something- means 'the old family'. He's pretty friendly with the local Triad chapter bumming around the street late nights, and the hood rats see him as the closest thing to a father that any of them have. "Not saying fuck-much about their folks, you know, but whaddam I gonna do, you know? Tell these rat-cock bastards to fuckin' go climb back up their crack-whore mommas? It's bad for business," he told me once.

A short, heavy-set man with a thick beard as jet black as his hair walks out of the main door to the liquor store, sleepily flips the 'Closed' sign over to 'Open'. He looks at me with his bearded bulldog's face. "Isn't it a little early for bacon, eggs and Seagram's seven?" I laugh and pat him on his meaty shoulder. "Alfo, by now, you of all people should know that's how I start my breakfast of champions." I follow him in; grab my usual-magnum bottle of Hennessey, liter of sour apple schnapps, two magnums of Jack Daniels, a liter of a bottle of anything I haven't tried before-today, it's Black Haus.

Alfo shakes his head. "Frat-boys don't drink as much. Man, how you bust caps in motherfuckers is beyond me," he says as he rings my total up. "Must have heat-seeking bullets or some shit."

It's too early for this kind of sarcasm shit, but I fire back all the same. "Yeah, and how your fat ass don't bust straight through the floor tile into the sewers is hidden world-wonder. Just ring the damn booze, okay?" I pull out a thick yellow rectangular envelope onto the counter and push it his way. Three guesses as to what's in there. "Onto business."

He yanks the packet away with a nervous quickness, looks out the long glass store window into the streets. "_Chuta Madre_," he breathes heavily, wiping away invisible sweat. "The fuck did I say about throwin' that shit around like that? You want the cops should see how well I converse with a fuckin' psycho-killer, huh?"

"My bad. So, any work out there for me?"

"Hmmm…I'd say quite a bit, if shit keeps headed towards the fan, way things is."

"Sounds worth my while. Out with it."

"First, the big fish. La Famiglia wants the usual rounds done. Some guys too late to pay rent or protection, or both, some other guy who might be stickin' his nose in shit he shouldn't up by the meat packaging district. Another schmuck has the misfortune of being suspected of stickin' his _pinga_ where he shouldn't. 'Round the corner from us, actually, bought a bottle of Port from me the other day."

"Whose wife?"

"Daughter, actually. The Clipper's kid."

I make a low whistle. Don Rudolpho 'The Clipper' Omiglio, a mob fossil that started out as a hired gun for Luciano and killed his way to the top. The only considerable stretch of time he wasn't working for the mob was when he was killing Nazis as an O.S.S. Operational Group commando behind the lines in Greece. When the Gottis fell and the Genoveses were infiltrated by the FBI and all but broken down, The Clipper's crew were still as much as a mystery as the Russian mob was to the feds. Any guy trying to operate a crew in the City has to get his 'blessing' to do so, lest they find themselves tucked in an oil barrel in some Staten Island landfill.

Oh, and he likes to do those he considers 'mortal enemies' in personally, with a lawn shear, hence the name.

"I gotta take him in alive, don't I?"

"You know it. He wants to do the brunt of the work on him hisself, so go easy on him."

"What else you got?"

"Triads are doing their own thing, but will let you know if they think an outsider would be needed in whatever the fuck it is they get up to doing."

"Thought nothin' gets by you, Alfo."

"Nothin' _does_, mijíto. But whatever people ain't sayin' out loud, I don't squawk my mouth off about, knowumsayin'?"

" 'Less they pay well, you mean."

"A smart trigger-man. Never thought I'd see the day."

"What else you got?"

Alfo shuffled his feet uneasily, sighed. "Some of these dumb rap-video reject motherfuckers were seen dealin' outside their turf again. Clipper's boy Rocco seen 'em hustle little kids at needle-point. He don't want Po-Po rollin' up his dope operation. He wants you to go clean house for him."

"Love it how I gotta play clean-up for junior. Got half a fucking mind to walk over to The Clipper's estate right now and let him know his boy's been dealin' smack to thugged-out dope-boys. Let the stuck-up little shit try to smooth-talk his way outta _that_ one."

"Really, kid, bite the hand that fuckin' feeds your scrawny ass? It weren't for him and those early jobs, you'd be dinin' on garbage and soup-kitchen slop like the other bums out there. Besides, you can't bring down Rocco without double-tapping Don Omiglio on the way."

"Fine, I'll plan the funeral some other day," I sigh through my teeth. There's nothing more I'd like to do than put two in Rocco-boy's face, but Alfo's right-as much of a shit-stain on the shorts of humanity Rocco happens to be, I would be highly suspect if he found himself lying cold on a coroner's desk. So I bide my time. "What's the pay-out on this one?"

Alfo smiles the same dirty smile an older man gives a younger lady when he buys her a drink. On him, though, it becomes endearing. "This'll make your day. The dope-boys are totin' a van-load of Rocco's smack pretty close to home. As far as I know, a small crew of six is baby-sittin' the dope in this parking lot."

"How close we talkin', Alfo?"

The smile grows wider, now like a wolf. "Five blocks away from the nearest Famiglia stoolie. Naturally, Rocco ain't too happy his product's bein' passed around Daddy's doorstep, and what once was a much-valued asset has quickly become a liability."

His enthusiasm is infectious as I crack a smile; I can't remember feeling this happy since…well, that's the fucking thing, ain't it? I don't.

"So, to make all this shit go away, he'll pay out the dick-hole, so long as ol' pops is none the wiser. Okay, what's he shelling out, like fifty-grand? Seventy?"

"Two-hundred gee's just for killin' the fucks. Hundred-grand bonus, based on how quick you can make a white van disappear without a mess."

" Sold. Call Rocco-boy up and let him know where I want him to leave my money, okay?" Alfo bags my booze in two big grocery bags and shoves it my way over the counter. "Already did, before I opened up. Thought you'd take that one right off the bat."

"So why'd you tell me that last, you knew I was gonna want that one?"

"Thought I'd give you the neighborhood news at my special discount price." He smiles his wolf's grin again.

"Alfo, where'd I be without your fat Puerto-Rican ass?" I say as I walk out the door.

"Alcoholics Anonymous. I keep you around because you're my favorite abuser." Alfo stands in the doorway, looking at me go. " Ay yo, Shinji, don't make this a breakin' news bulletin, got me? When the shit starts flyin', you tend ta make a royal fuckin' mess of things."

The sky is a slightly lighter shade of grey, and the wind is brisk. I smile back at him. "Mess, man? I'm practically mister fucking clean incarnate. I'll be back before you eat your first morning Whopper."

The parking garage Alfo's talking about just so happens to be where I parked the other day. The weight of my Colt Customs hangs assuringly from my hoslter. Who says you can't start a day out right, huh?

Coroner's note: Sorry for being preachy at the beginning, but I felt like it had to be said. Other than that, you know the drill. Hoped you liked it. Later.


	4. 4th Slug: A Royal Fuckin' Mess of Things

Last Call Productions Presents…

_**NGE: The Long Hard Kill**_

Author's Note: Hope you guys like my fic so far. Throw some reviews my way, I like to hear from my audience! Just as a warning, there's gonna be some particularly strong language that's gonna be used in this chapter, and some of it's racial. Of course, I don't mean to offend anyone by the use of such language. Just letting all of you know.

Killer Tune: "Fight Fire With Fire" by Metallica.

_**4**__**th**__** Slug: A Royal Fuckin' Messing of Things**_

_She could see the sun, a cold, uncaring eye of light staring down at her amidst the cirrus clouds. Rage, borne out of wounded pride and helplessness, shook her stricken body. Her enemies, the very ones she single-handedly cut through in a joyous, bloody swathe, proved resilient beyond the grave, had resurrected, and had taken flight, but not before tearing her open with the rabid hunger of animals. Like great, white carrion birds, mocking their prey, they flew lazy circles above and around her._

"_I'll…kill you," she hoarsely spat out as blood filled her mouth and dripped away through the corners of her lips. Blood seeped steadily from the ruin of her left eye down the front of her plug-suit, now slick with it. Pain, unlike that she had ever known almost washed over her completely, with only the burning embers of her fury keeping her alive. She would not fall to them-she wouldn't allow it. Wounds be damned, she reeled in her head as her quivering right hand rose towards the sky, hoping that the immense power of her hate would drag down at the very least one of her assailants. She was the Second Child-she would have her killers' blood. "I'll kill you, I'll kill you, I'll kill you, I'll kill you…."_

_The circling only slowed, steadied out. Then, the spears rained down. The pain ended._

"Watchdog, this is Evil Eye, come in."

The crackle of the earpiece shook her out of her reverie. _Snap out of it_, she thought. _Time to put your game face on. Show them you're worthy of being here. Show them nothing's wrong._

"…Evil Eye, Watchdog. Your call-sign sounds like an asshole joke."

"Keep cracking jokes while on assignment, agent Soryu. See where it'll land you."

In the back of a blacked-out van labeled "Old World Catering Co." on the side, Asuka Langley Soryu sat back, sipping her thermos of Earl Grey tea while she scanned the wall of camera screens for any remote sign of activity from the white van up on the second floor of the parking garage. She brushed away stray strands of her silken red hair and spied on Agents Harris and Reid playing their newly-donned roles as parking lot attendants with the same seriousness they would have had escorting the president. Reid, a tall man who looked to be in his late forties, made an imposing figure to drive up to at the entrance. His gray hair was buzzed tight to his scalp, and clear blue eyes that could penetrate Kevlar scrutinized the IDs of all patrons going in and out.

Asuka always thought he looked like an eagle awkwardly, if not resentfully, walking around in a man's body, from his slightly stiff but precise movements to the chiseled frame of his sharp, angular face. His black tie and white dress shirt, showing from under the bulky black winter jacket they were told was uniform with what the regular valets wore here, was neat and crisp.

Agent Harris looked like he'd been working this lot for years. Slouching in the booth whereas Reid preferred to stand at the long metal slat serving as a barrier to the cars at the entrance, Harris had his tie loosened and his pants barely hugging his hips. The fitted Mets cap on his head was tilted slightly upwards. Harris one of the Agency's finest rising stars to date, including her. She smiled. She had to give it to him, he was pretty damn good-devil be damned if his cornrows weren't up to regulation Agency grooming practices. He played with the coil of plastic wire hanging from his earpiece, glancing with disinterest at the parking lot patrons.

"_Mein_ _Gott_, Reid, I've been looking at TV screens for the past five hours, what's the harm in some joking?"

"Surprised you haven't realized, Asuka—Reid's comedic rep doesn't go past knock-knock jokes an' tellin' folks they fridges is runnin'. Heard him tell Caputo in R&D somethin' about getting this Albert-guy out of a can, once."

"Ha-ha-ha, wise-ass. That was so funny, I forgot to take my dick out of your mother."

"Fuck you, cracka."

Asuka nearly spat out her tea, settled for letting out her signature low and dirty chuckle. She tried to keep it discreet-laughter coming from a van parked in a desolate corner of a parking lot might turn some heads, and the only way the op they were on could possibly succeed was if they weren't even remotely noticeable.

That was thing that pulled at her gut. This kind of job was clearly within the jurisdiction of the FBI, at the most, a stakeout opportunity missed by the NYPD at the least. Sending three of the National Security Agency's finest operatives for a drug-bust seemed…trivial, a waste of her natural talents she impressed the top brass with. Not to mention how the closest available back-up was two whole city-blocks away from their current position. Nothing about this op seemed right.

But then again, she thought darkly as her left hand hovered and rubbed her left eye reflexively, nothing about this ravaged, battered remnant of a world seemed even remotely right. Not like before, anyway.

To make matters worse-and she'd never tell anyone this even at gun-point-she still felt his fingers in her dreams. Asuka was still, after ten death-cheating years, haunted nightly by his eyes.

"So can someone tell me why we're here again?" Harris said as pressed the button to lift the metal bar up for a car Reid approved letting pass. She realized her shoulders had relaxed; it was comforting to know that she wasn't the only one who felt out of place.

"You know they tell me as much as they tell you, Harris. I just go with the flow of it all."

"The fuck is the FBI or DEA doing that's so important, they gotta have us moonlightin' for their punk-asses, anyway?"

Reid's voice was terse over the comm-link. "Here's an idea, focus on the goddamn job at hand. You can ask Fairchild about the finer points of what's strictly our job and someone else's when we're back at Regional."

"Okay, okay, got it. Don't gotta jump down my throat an'-hey, how you doing today, sir?"

A man in a brown leather bomber jacket and jeans, a plain Yankees cap on his head and a scarf over his lower face approached the gate. He had a brick red back-pack strapped on his back. Reid gave the man from what Asuka could see on the surveillance cameras set up all over the garage a warm smile. "How are you today, sir? May I have your ticket, please?"

"Where's Wally and Gurdeep?"

"Ah, poor Wally got the flu and called in this morning. Gurdeep, though, just didn't show up for his shift this morning," Reid grumbled to the stranger, as if he was sincerely offended at having to cover Gurdeep's vacant post. "Who knows, maybe he finally upped an' quit, like he been sayin' all these years."

Back in the van, Asuka stared at the screen showing Reid and Harris, incredulous giggles escaping her. She started to wonder if Reid did indeed know Gurdeep better than the brief meeting they all had a day before with the valets to tell them they were taking a paid day off on Uncle Sam.

The stranger, eyes hidden behind dark rectangular sunglasses, creased his brow in astonishment as he slid the ticket over to Reid. "Gurdeep, leave? Nah, that's not like him-he's like the captain of the Titanic when it comes to this place. They'll probably hold his funeral in his favorite parking spot."

"Hey, mister," Harris said, one eyebrow arched up in what Asuka knew from her time working with him was his subtle way of letting those around him something was up. "Ain't it kinda cloudy to be walkin' 'round these parts with shades on? I mean, I'm jus' sayin', you know?"

"Eye operation," he said, his tone dismissive. "Lasers. My eyes are still pretty sensitive to light at this point."

"Well, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, sir," Reid chipped in, shoulders set low in a humble bow of sorts, "but I'm gonna have to ask you to momentarily remove your lenses so I can verify you and your ID appropriately."

Asuka looked on, zoomed the closest camera in on the man. Just as she started to get a clearer image of his face, he craned his head down and towards himself, rummaging through his pockets for his ID. Asuka sighed and rolled her eyes, switching her gaze to the next available camera angle. She had gotten visual and started to zoom in when he half-turned to his left and opened his jacket to look in the inner pockets, once again concealing his face. She got the feeling that this man was trying to keep himself a blurry after-thought, trying to stay low-key. This was a challenge, albeit a minor one for her. Asuka always liked challenges. She set her tea down haphazardly on the small counter and punched in the commands to the consoles for simultaneous view from multiple angles on the man.

"There's the fucker," the man said, pulling out his ID card and handing it over to Reid. He pulled his scarf down from his nose and mouth and smiled assuringly.

"Um, sir? Your glasses?" Harris said, still suspicious.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Sorry about that." He slowly pulled off the shades, squinting at the cold brightness of the fluorescent lights.

In the van, Asuka leaned in slightly as she zoomed all available cameras on the man. This guy's mistake was trying to look too ordinary, she thought as she studied his on-screen image. Baseball hat, shades, scarf over the lower face-all sorts of alarms in her head were going off. Despite his practiced "nice-guy" demeanor-normal denizens of this cold, indifferent city would have been screaming by now at the lengthy time it took for the valets to check a simple ID, she thought-the man at the gate appeared to have an underlying, unsettling sense of malevolence about him.

He was taking off his sunglasses when her elbow knocked the thermos off the small ledge and onto the radio-set given to them by the NYPD to call their back-up on. It made all sorts of noise as tea shorted internal circuits and blared feedback in the cramped confines of the van. Asuka scrambled desperately to simultaneously pick up her thermos and somehow keep the radio-set in workable condition. "_Sheisse_!" she whispered angrily.

Reid looked at the ID photo, and back up at the dark brown eyes attempting to focus on him in the light of garage. The kid in the photo-and that's exactly what he looked like, from the sad, sullen expression to the lack of facial hair-barely resembled the man in front of him. There was a five o' clock shadow crawling over his lower face and under his chin, the skin on his face taut and lean. Bags drooped slightly under his eyes. His hair was a little longer, though it more or less looked like it hadn't changed over the years. He smelled of bourbon.

"Thomas Wanatabe," Reid said, peering up at the man as he read his name aloud. He took a bit longer in studying the face in front of him, handed his ID back to him. He jerked a thumbs-up to Harris, who hesitated a moment before lifting the metal bar up.

"So sorry for the inconvenience, sir. We're just trying to do our job the best we can."

"No problem," Shinji Ikari said as he slipped the fake ID he made himself back into his inner coat pocket and pulled the scarf back up over his face. "You never know who you might be letting into places like these nowadays, you know?"

"Your car's in lot 34-B on the second floor, sir," Harris grumbled as he did his best to ignore the sounds coming from his ear-piece.

"Thanks, take care fellas," Shinji chirped cheerily as he made his way to a doorway marked 'to second floor' with a painted black arrow pointed upwards.

Reid waited till Shinji closed the door behind him, and then spat his words back to Asuka. "What the fuck is going on back there, agent Soryu?"

"Goddamn thermos fell on the radio-set. Still works, though," Asuka muttered as she felt her cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. Here she was, second year with the NSA, a little over a hundred black-op missions behind her already, and still fucking up like it was amateur hour. Although times like this were rare, she loathed the times she'd fuck up.

Reid would have proceeded to chew her out for her lack of professional conduct, but stopped when a lime green Hummer pulled up to the metal bar, rap music punching its way out of the car system's speakers. The tinted passenger-side rolled down. Reid turned to face them, his best impression of a smile plastered on his face. The music volume lowered.

"How are you today, sir? How--"

A young man in his twenties, lazily shoving an afro-pick in his wild, puffed mane, shoved the yellow slip of paper in Reid's face. He was wearing a dark blue bubble jacket, with a chin-strap of facial hair that ran up along the sides of his face into his afro. His dark brown eyes listlessly regarded Reid.

"Mah ticket, son. You need ID, too?" Reid looked over at Harris, who already reached for the folded copy of the _New York Times_ with his service Sig-Sauer in it. Asuka, attention back to the camera watching the main gate, zoomed in on the license plate. It matched the plate number pre-mission intelligence said belonged to the drug-runners, only the car had changed. _Not too bright, using the same plates from one car on another_, she mused as she sent the two-bleep signal over the comm-link to Harris and Reid to let them know this was their guy.

"You always need ID for all transactions in this lot—_son_," Reid testily shot back, smile never leaving his face.

The man stared back at Reid impassively, and then handed his ID over.

"Julio Calderon," Reid said, then turned to Harris in the booth. "He on the list?"

"He's on my list, alright," Harris smirked as he hit the bar-lifting button. "Van's in lot 48-A, on the third floor."

"Ay yo, mah nigga," Julio said as he turned his attention to the guard-booth. The driver's side window rolled down to reveal a dark-skinned man wearing a Puerto Rican Flag bandana over his short-braided dread-locks. He sneered his arrogance at Harris, who sat stone-faced with his hand on the Sig's grip in the paper.

"Sure ain't yo' nigga. Whatchu need?"

Julio and his friend laughed raucously, then settled down as Julio handed the driver over something thick and slightly green. The driver slid his hand out to show Harris a thick roll of twenty-dollar bills. Sneering face never leaving Harris' gaze once, he pulled out a single twenty and gently dropped it to the ground.

"Funny shit 'bout that, we know that's the best tip you gonna get all day," the driver said as the lime-green Hummer erupted in laughter from unseen occupants, much to the delight of a sniggering Julio. They rolled away, music pumping from the speakers again, up to the third floor.

"Can we call it in?" Harris asked, glaring at the Hummer going up and around the corner to the service ramp.

"Now's as good a time as any," Reid muttered. "Agent Soryu, give the signal."

A menacing smile crossed Asuka's lips. This was the part of the job she couldn't mess up even if she tried. "Loud and clear, Evil-eye." She knelt down and adjusted the frequency on the radio to the SWAT-team's bandwidth.

"Long-Arm One, this is Watchdog. Close and secure streets around parking complex and move in by the numbers, over."

She unhooked and secured her Kevlar vest when the reply came back to her. "Watchdog, confirmed. Long-Arm One through Three closing in on your position, streets around complex are cleared. E.T.A. two and a half minutes. Out."

Shinji closed the door behind him and set the back-pack on the nearest step on the stairwell. He then started to strip down to his boxers and tugged on his new change of clothing- a black suit, white shirt, and a red silk tie. Stuffing his old clothes in the back-pack, he unzipped the outer pouch and pulled out a mask, which he rolled on the top of his head. Shinji reached into his pants pocket and produced a small round container of black camo paint, opened it, and applied the paint in circles around his eyes. Zipping the bag back up, he quickly left the stairwell, heading for lot 34-B.

When he got to his car, a black-painted '72 Dodge Charger, he opened the trunk and threw the back-pack in. Looking in the trunk, Shinji saw a Camel lying practically untouched next to the back-pack and a spare tire. _Must have fallen out of my pocket one of these days_, he mused as he picked it up and lit it up with his olive-drab Zippo lighter. He turned around and stretched out before leaning on the edge of the open trunk, looking around casually to see if the coast was clear. When he decided it was safe enough, he pulled out his keys and inserted a small, round key in a keyhole located on the interior of the car-trunk lid and turned it. The secret compartment opened up steadily to reveal a small cache of weapons of assorted calibers and sizes, hanging up from small hooked pegs that kept them secure and in place. Shinji took a drag while he attempted to pick a weapon of choice for the job at hand, found that he couldn't, and then closed his eyes. His left arm raised, pointer finger sticking out ominously.

"Eeny…Meeny…Miny…Mo," He said as his finger swayed back and forth, hoping his finger would land in the direction of a weapon he wouldn't mind carrying around with him. The issue wasn't about poor selection from the limited cache he had-they were all fine guns, and had seen him through too many firefights for him to remember. He just couldn't decide what gun he wanted to use.

"Catch-a-piggy…by-the…whatever the fuck it is you catch a pig by," he said as he laid his finger on a weapon and opened his eyes. He smiled wide, flicked the butt of his Camel away. "What a _fine_ choice, Lady Luck," Shinji said as he picked up the gun and closed the trunk. The secret lid-compartment automatically closed up as soon as Shinji lowered the lid. He then opened the back-seat of his car and pulled out a skateboard and a small shoulder-mountable boom-box. Setting the boom-box down, he turned it on its side, flicked a switch on. A green light blinked on three times, then turned a steady orange. He closed the door and pulled down the mask, making a quick check on the La France M16K he had slung over his shoulder. Shinji, content that he had all the things he needed for the mission ahead, pushed off and skated up the ramp towards the third floor.

'Dutchy' Mitchell wished he was quicker.

Standing at the foot of the ramp at 6'1" in a blue hoodie and a black du-rag, he stretched out lazily and began to slowly text his friend a reply message when he heard the wheels scratch their way towards him.

'Dutchy', still punching in keys to answer his buddy, cited that same flaw later, as he recalled how odd it was for someone to be skateboarding so slowly, wear a Jack Skellington mask, almost all black save for the bone-white face. The masked man, wearing a black suit and a red tie, was holding up a silver-painted boom-box above his head.

At first, Dutchy thought the blunt he hit half an hour before was laced, therefore explaining the strange, life-like apparition drifting closer to him on the skate-board. "Maaan, I mus' be _fucked_ up," he sniggered in amusement. He had to admit, as far as weed went, the batch that young Italian mob-guy gave him as a parting gift for dealing heroin to local smack dealers out of the white van at the far end of the lot was top-notch.

Then Dutchy saw the gun hanging off his right shoulder.

It was an M16 of some sort, that much he knew from many an Xbox game he spent most of his days playing in his mother's apartment. But the difference was starkly noticeable. The barrel was shorter, way too short to be used as an assault rifle, and there was a long, silver rectangular clip in place of the all-too familiar curved sickle-clip the M16 usually carried. There was a short, stubby handle under the barrel. It hung menacingly at the figure's side.

Had Dutchy been quicker to notice, he would have realized that the masked man came much faster than he appeared to. He would have realized the man had switched his grip so he was holding the boom-box in one hand while his free hand clutched a dagger by the blade. Dutchy would have also seen the quick flash of silver flicker in the air.

'Dutchy' Mitchell, had he been quicker, would have pulled out his Glock 9mm from behind his pants and put two his face. He would have warned his friends that masked death was coming, and so they would have pulled out of the lot with wild abandon.

He settled for slumping against a slab of concrete wall, gurgling his last breathes in this world while grasping the knife hilt in his Adam's Apple.

The back doors of the white van opened. Two men armed with AK-47s took a cautious look around the area before judging it safe. The driver came out from the van a second later, nervously lighting a cigarette.

"Why don't we jus' fuckin' _go_, man?" the driver said after exhaling a puff of smoke, trying hard to sound more bored than edgy.

"'Cuz I gotta make sure the product's here, nigga, so shut 'cho bitch-ass up. We go when I say we're ready," Julio said as he inspected the clear bags of off-white and beige powder heroin tightly packed in the back of the van. "Tell that lazy fuck Ray to act as a lookout. We don't need an audience, knowhumsayin'?"

"Where he at?"

"Two rows down. Stupid nigga's been drinkin' again, and got the spot mixed up. Text his ass to git over here."

"Aight, Julio, I'm on it." The driver said as he typed out Julio's message. He pressed the send button.

That's when he heard the music.

At first, he thought it was coming from his own crew, and popped his head out of the back of the van. "Turn that shit off, man, you…" his voice trailed off as he realized the others in the lime-green Hummer had their music turned down partially as they shared a joint amongst themselves.

The tune he was listening to seemed to be reaching them at a steady pace. It couldn't have been coming from a car's sound system, that much Julio was sure. It was loud; the rhythm of the bass even and booming, but it wasn't as strong as it would have been coming from car speakers. He listened closely, guitars shrieking as the lyrics floated towards him.

"_Do. Un. To others. As. They've. Done to You._

_But. What. The Hell is. This. World. Co-ming Tooo?"_

"Who the fuck…?"

Julio's question was answered by gun-fire.

A man in what looked like a black and white skull-face mask skated around the front of the white van, set down his boom-box without losing speed, and skidded to an abrupt stop by the passenger-side window of the lime-green Hummer. The masked man rapped on the window, much to the surprise of the former driver of the car, who had switched seats with another one of the vehicle's occupants. The man with the flag bandana's facial expressions went from confusion to horror as he saw Jack Skellington's face raise a sub-machine gun.

The reports of stuttering fire echoed in the parking lot. Shinji sprayed the side-windows and door panels of the Hummer with hot brass, the spent shell-casings clinking on the blacktop. Windows shattered, and screams and curses were cut short. Julio screamed an obscenity and ducked back in the van, scrounging around for a weapon. The two other men with AK's dashed for the cover of the side of the van, while the van's driver pulled out a handgun and started to fire into the other side of the Hummer.

Julio popped back out of the back of the van with a Tec-9 and quickly squatted down alongside the other two men, glaring at them as they cowered in the relative safety the van's side provided. "The FUCK are you muthafuckas doin'?! DROP that muthafucka! One on each side-he can't smoke both of you at the same time!"

Shinji crouched down and swapped out his empty clip for a fresh one as bullets came back his way. The shooting sounded like it was coming closer, and acting on trained instinct, clutched the skateboard in his hands, and swung hard as he popped up. The flat edge of the skateboard slammed into the thug's skull as he flopped wordlessly onto the floor. Shinji spun around and ripped a burst of fire in fanning motion into the chest of an on-coming gangsta, .45-caliber rounds punching fist-sized holes out his back and chest. The other thug, his fighting blood up, charged yowling an incomprehensible war-cry of sorts as he let the AK-47 chatter on full auto.

Shinji rolled to his side into a prone position. He steadied his aim as the bullets zipped around him and kicked up shards of concrete.

A single round from the M16K took the side of the hood's face off in a messy spray of blood and tissue. Shinji pulled himself up to one knee when he heard the screech of tires coming closer to his location. A dark green Ford Explorer skidded to a halt so close to a support pillar, he was almost certain they would crash into it. Armed occupants surged out of the vehicle, carrying an assortment of handguns and sub-machine guns. He saw one of the hoods toting around a sawed-off 12-guage.

"Kill 'im, fuckin' kill 'im," Julio shrilled as he let out a wild volley from his Tec-9 in Shinji's general direction. Shinji kept himself low as he moved between other cars, the bullets chewed concrete and car parts around him. Things were gonna get a lot worse before they got better for him, he decided as he blew the ankles off of an oncoming assailant.

The sound of helicopter blades pummeling the air reached Shinji's ears. Men wearing dark blue fatigues and black body armor and kit slid down yellow cords and came into view at the far end of the lot. Movement close to his rear swung his gun around on two parking lot attendants, wearing Kevlar body armor and carrying Sig-Sauers.

"This is the N.Y.P.D.! Drop your weapons! Get on the ground with your hands on your head!" a chopper-mounted loudspeaker barked as Tac-team troopers bounded toward Shinji and the ensuing firefight, laying down suppression fire to cover their advance.

"Oh, fuck this," Shinji spat as he threw himself into cover, windshields and windows shattering from the cross-fire he found himself in the middle of. Julio's men began to return fire.

_No way I'll make it out of here with the van_, Shinji thought as he quickly popped up to spray fire back at the on-coming police. _Guess I gotta blow it now_.

Shots came from behind, blew out the glass windows of the sedan in front of him. Cursing, he rolled sideways and saw the small plastic detonator fall out of his pant pocket. A bullet smacked into it, destroying it before he could retrieve it.

"Watch your fire, Harris, I want him alive," Reid bellowed as he double-tapped a thug in the chest. Harris nodded as he slid behind a bullet-riddled pillar, glancing back at his partner. "Where's Asuka?"

"She's covering the exits. Don't worry, she won't be anywhere near him," Reid said as he crouched behind an equally pocked and scarred husk of a black car.

Rolling and cursing his way across the pavement, Shinji found himself firing less and hugging cover with more frequency than he liked. He was about to blast his way around the corner of a shot-up Buick when a Tac-team trooper beat him to it. Screaming, the officer brought the barrel of the twelve-gauge to bear. Shinji jumped up and gripped the shotgun's pump as he forced the barrel skyward, jacking out a round of buckshot while swung the butt of his M16k's butt viciously into the cop's neck. With a strangled murmur, the officer slumped lifelessly onto the floor.

A ricochet pinged off the trunk door of the truck. Shinji crouched low and flung himself into the back of the truck's flat trunk area when he almost slid face-first into two plastic gallon-jugs of gasoline.

"Finally, a goddamn break," Shinji muttered as he grabbed both jugs and sprinted towards the van.

Harris was reloading when looked to see Shinji running through the hail of bullets, zig-zagging through the maze of vehicles back to the van. Harris spied the gasoline cans. "Son-of-a-bitch is gonna blow the van, Reid--"

"Fuck the van! Bring Ikari in!"

Reid's and Harris' comm-links opened up to Asuka's channel. "Evil Eye, what the FUCK is going on down there?! I turn my back to gear up for a second, and World War Three tries to shoot its way out a goddamn parking complex!!"

Harris answered back with a half-truth: "We've got a masked hostile on our hands. Guy's gotta be a pro, I ain't never seen one guy light up that many tangos at once."

Reid spoke into his mouthpiece. "Watchdog, are the exits secured?"

"Long-Arm Three split up and secured both exits. I'm headed your way--"

"Watchdog, head up to the roof. I gotta hunch I'll need a body up there."

"The roof? Why--?"

"You have your orders, Watchdog. Evil Eye out." Reid switched his comm.-link channel back to Harris' frequency. Harris and Reid hustled towards the van's current position.

Julio fired into the press of heavily armed police making their way towards him and the van. An officer fell as the rest of Long-Arm One spread out, seeking cover from the fusillade. He had decided then and there to make himself scarce, even if his comrades were still trading shots with the police. Ducking three shots that peppered the side of the already bullet-pocked van, Julio yanked the driver-side door open and threw himself onto the seat. Small glass cubes showered him as rounds sailed into the windshield.

"I ain't sittin' my ass up in Rykers for 25 to life," he spat through clenched teeth as he started the engine. A bullet punched through the side of the van and tore clean through his left shoulder, leaving him screaming in pain. Wiping blood and tears from his eyes, Julio looked at his side mirrors to see the masked killer running up to the back of the van, clutching two jerry cans of gas.

"Aw, fuck _that_ shit," he growled as jammed his foot on the gas pedal. The wheels of the van squealed as it raced across the lot, sparks flying as bullets punched into the side of the speeding vehicle. Gripping the steering wheel with one hand, Julio spun the van around, hammered his foot back down on the pedal. He heard something thump hard in the back of the van, and feared the worst.

Shinji, M16K hanging limply at his side from the shoulder strap, crashed with a thud as he hurled himself onto the floor of the back of the van, rear doors still swinging and banging wildly. Unscrewing the caps off both jerry cans, he began sloshing gasoline all over the interior of the van, soaking the neatly packaged bags of Mexican black-tar till the cans were empty. He had to cover him nose, the smell of the volatile fluid was so strong. Shinji struggled to find a firm footing as the van picked up velocity. He kept crouched as bullets tore into the rear doors.

A back panel to the front of Shinji quickly slid open. The barrel of the Tec-9 stuck out as the car veered wildly to the left, speed not slowing by any margin. "No passengers, muthafucka," Julio growled as he squeezed the trigger.

The long, stuttering burst of shots echoed in the small confines of the van as Shinji leapt to the floor, sparks from bullets clanging against metal igniting the gas into flames. The van suddenly reeled into a tire-screeching doughnut across the lot. Shinji lost whatever foothold he had in the back of the van and was tossed flailing through the air. The hood of a minivan broke his fall, as equally as Shinji busted its windshield.

"Ha-HAAA! Shoulda worn a seatbelt, mah nigga," Julio screamed in a frenzied joy that came from adrenaline as he hunted for an exit ramp to the streets below him. His happiness was short-lived as he smelled smoke, felt the internal temperature rise in the van. Flames licked through the open back-panel. A string of curse flew out of his mouth as he slid the panel shut. It dawned on Julio Calderon then and there that he was going to have to explain to Rocco Omiglio, rising mob-star and son of the City's last powerful Mafia don, how $57 million in dope cooked up in the back of its delivery van.

He needed to get out of New York, before the night-fall.

It took a moment for Shinji to get his bearings straight. The force of hitting the windshield left him dazed, and he shook his head to rid himself of the effect. He rolled to his feet on top of the car-roof and sprinted as fast as he could in the direction of the flaming van, his thigh and calf muscles pumping with adrenaline as he pounded his feet along the roofs of cars. He saw the van, saw fire and thick, black smoke spewing out of the back as it was rounding the column of parked cars. Shinji was so close, he could smell the noxious sickly sweet stench of the heroin roasting in the inferno. He had to gain control of the van somehow-there was no other choice.

Shinji drop-kicked his way through the driver-side window, glass shattering as he knocked Julio aside. The van slammed into the wall of the complex, sparks flying as metal scraped along concrete. Shinji thrust an elbow into Julio's face twice, making sure he at the very least broke his nose. Dazed, Julio tried desperately to maintain his grip on the steering wheel, howling his rage as he attempted to regain control of the van.

Shinji gritted his teeth as he smashed his forehead into Julio's right eye. Julio cried out in pain, both of his hands reflexively reaching up to his battered eye. The Tec-9 flopped heavily onto the seat. Before he could get the chance to regain his weapon, Shinji brought the back of his right fist viciously into Julio's throat. Shinji brought the van around, speeding his way towards the Third Floor roof, much to the dismay of the first half of Long-Arm Three.

"Blow the tires! Blow the fucking tires!" Shinji heard an officer scream as the flaming van barreled its way towards the impromptu road-block. The remaining officers, seeing the burning hulk of the speeding vehicle coming towards them, instead leapt for cover out of its way, only to fire at the vehicle on its way up the ramp. Smoke, thick and black, began to fill the driver's compartment, and Shinji knew he didn't have long before the fire would spread to the gas tank. He gunned the engine to full speed, the light grey noon skyline of the city suddenly looming into view.

Asuka had heard the screeching tires and revving engine of the van before she could see it. There was no time. "FUCK," Asuka screamed as she rolled out of the path of the speeding inferno. The force she met the concrete divider with was enough to stun her.

Shinji barely noticed a shock of fiery red hair roll out of his path when a dark blue Blackhawk helicopter suddenly soared into view at eye-level. He saw the chopper turn and idle sideways, saw the SWAT sniper raise his rifle and take aim down the sight.

"Keeps getting better an' fuckin' better," he snarled as he ducked low, aiming the van straight for the chopper. The shot blew out the battered remains of the windshield and took off the driver's headrest. Shinji dared a peek upwards, and thanked his luck the sniper carried a bolt-action rifle. He opened the driver-side door. He looked over at Julio, blue in the face and struggling to breathe as the van quickly started covering the distance to the Blackhawk with alarming speed.

"Thanks for the ride," Shinji said as he rolled out of the van.

"_GHAKK!_ NO--!"

The van's speed combined with its chassis weight easily crunched through the thin concrete ledge of the lot's roof. The Blackhawk tried its best to avoid the speeding inferno, but couldn't move its tail propeller out of the way in time. Both vehicles clashed and ignited in the sky, raining burning debris onto the streets below.

Winded and hurt from the roll, Shinji staggered to his feet. He barely had gotten up when shots came his way. The two parking lot attendants, to Shinji's ever-growing surprise, sent more rounds his way.

"Drop your weapon, Ikari, and we won't give you an on-the-spot facelift," Reid warned as Harris approached him, the barrel of Harris' gun never leaving Shinji's face. Shinji, although stunned the old man knew his name, slowly backed himself against the concrete ledge with his hands raised. He saw the fire-escape of the adjacent apartment building, knew the risk of falling to his death. _Who dares wins, right?_, he thought as he kept his eyes on Harris. It was then that he saw the flash-bang grenades dangling loosely on his hip.

"Ooohh…_mother_fucker," Asuka said as she stumbled back up, one palm gingerly rubbing the bruise on her head, while she regained her grip on her pistol.

Agents Reid and Harris shot Asuka a glance. It was all Shinji needed.

Harris had never been taken down so fast in his memory. One moment he clearly had the drop on Shinji, gun raised to his face. The next moment, his gun clattered to the floor as Shinji chopped the gun out of his hand and swung a forearm into Harris' face. Harris staggered back momentarily, and then was spun around to face Reid and Asuka. He felt a tug at his waist, blinked in surprise along with a cursing Reid as they saw the safety pin on the flashbang clatter to the pavement.

"Cover!", Reid yelled as he jammed his eyes shut and covered his ears. Asuka quickly followed suit. The grenade went off in a blinding, deafening display as Shinji leapt from the ledge. He barely managed to grab hold of a rusty railing closer to the alley floor than he liked. His vision was full of bright spots of light, the sounds of the city reaching his ears as if from far down a tunnel. He managed to make out a dumpster overflowing with garbage, and dropped on top of it.

Staggering out of the dumpster, he looked to a sewer lid that abruptly popped up loosely from the ground. A young man with short brown locks and glasses slid his head into view.

"C'mon! Time to get ghosty! Let's move!"

"…Ghosty? Kensuke, the fuck--"

"YOU COMIN' OR NOT?!?"

"Move the fuck over, then!"

Sliding down the metal ladder into the sewer, Kensuke and Shinji ran down the damp stinking tunnels. After a few minutes of running, they paused for a break by an arched chamber. Shinji took off the sweat-soaked mask, stuffing it in a pant pocket.

"You okay? Any bad wounds?" Kensuke panted, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a brush of a forearm.

"…Raspberries."

"What?"

"I thought…," Shinji panted as he leaned his head back against a wall, "I thought I smelled raspberries up there. So…so faint…."

Kensuke half-wheezed, half-chuckled at his long-time friend. "Raspberries? You mean, after fighting half of the goddamn NYPD, blowing all that shit up, landing in trash and running in everyone else's shit, you somehow manage to hone in on…raspberries? You have any head-wounds I should know about?"

"Fuck yourself, you compulsive masturbating fuck. How'd you--"

"Alfo told me. C'mon, we gotta get you back home. They might be in the tunnels already."

Taking a moment more to gather their breath, Kensuke and Shinji made their way to a rusted door at the end of the arched tunnel. The sign on the rusted door read, "Subway".

Shinji flopped open a side-panel next to it, brought his face close to it. A red light scanned the length of his face, and beeped its approval as the door silently swung open, leading up to a stairwell. Both of them ducked in, and the heavy door quickly swung back shut.


	5. 5th Slug: Reassignment

-Last Call Productions Presents-

_**NGE: The Long Hard Kill**_

A/N: This chapter will be written in 3rd Person narrative-style. The next will be in 1st Person.

_**5**__**th**__** Slug: Re-Assignment.**_

The rusting metal gates of the lift creaked noisily to a close, gears and cogs spinning to life as the elevator pulled itself up the shaft. Shinji, sweat-soaked and physically drained, sat haphazardly on the floor with his back against the wall. His eyes were closed as he tiredly brought the M16K to his lap and switched the safety back on. He looked over to Kensuke, still trying to catch his breath from sprinting in the sewers.

"…Hey, Kensuke."

Kensuke, standing by the button panel on the right by the lift door, didn't respond right away, glaring at the floor. When he did choose to respond, Kensuke Aida was all business, the tone of his voice low and even, tiredness wringing around the edges of his words as he spoke.

"You get hit anywhere? Anything broken, sprained?"

"No, just gonna have some nasty bruises, really."

"You sure we weren't followed?"

"Huh?...Yeah, we're home-free, man. Besides, we armed the alarm system on the way up, remember? Something eatin' at you, Kenny?"

Kensuke turned his head, eyes locking with Shinji's in an accusatory glare. "Do you see them in your sleep at night? You know, the people you kill?"

Shinji sighed and shook his head. "Not again with this shit."

"You're tired of hearing it, huh? Hell, I'm tired of _saying_ it," Kensuke said, crossing his arms. "Besides, I didn't come to you, asking for gun-fights and gangsters and shit."

"Yeah, true, you didn't come looking for me. But what the fuck was I supposed to do, _let_ the JSSDF shoot you in some field, or a fuckin' ditch on the side of the road somewhere by the prefecture limits?"

Kensuke spoke slowly, but raised his voice volume.

"That was _not_ your choice to make."

"Oh, give me a fucking break--"

"That. Was not. Your choice. To make."

Shinji stared angrily up at Kensuke, jabbing his right index finger into his own forehead. "You _want_ two to the temple, is that it? Go ahead, go back home, they'll kill you like the fuckin' rest--"

"THAT WAS _NOT_ YOUR _FUCKING_ _CHOICE_ TO MAKE!!" Kensuke screamed, his face red, body shaking with barely containable anger. His chest heaved in and out steadily as he panted, fists clenching and unclenching at his side. The only sound to break the apprehensive silence that followed was the ding of the elevator bell as it reached its destination.

"Guess that's you," Shinji muttered, concentrating his gaze on his clasped hands.

Kensuke didn't reply as he stepped off the elevator, walking a slow, measured gait towards his apartment door. He turned to find Shinji only a few steps behind, looking down at the ground with his hands in his pant pockets. He struggled to find the right words to say as he occasionally looked up at Kensuke, then back to the floor.

"I…you know, I…shit, man, I just wanted to do the right thing--"

"So you kill people for money, but hey, it's cool, 'cuz you saved your old pal's hide, right? What's that make me, like the karma-version of the 'get-out-of-jail-free' card?" Kensuke shot back as he opened the door and stepped inside, once again facing Shinji as he leaned on the doorframe.

"Look. You told me when you found after Third…that thing that happened," Kensuke continued as chose his words carefully, if only for his own peace of mind, "that you were gonna go after the JSSDF and all the other guys responsible for what…what went down. So far, it's been three years, and all you do is go out and tag some guys who missed protection payments, or gun down rival shit-bags for _other_ shit-bags. You've been tellin' me we need the money to get the stuff we need to start this suicide war of yours, but you get to doing things, Shinji, that makes you as bad as or even worse than the bastards that roasted my dad when they took NERV HQ."

Shinji remembered the screams of dying NERV personnel echoing through the hallways, the sounds of gun-fire and the distinctive _whoosh_-ing gurgle of the flamethrowers, followed by the nauseating stench of burning flesh that filled the air all over the NERV compound. Shinji was stone-faced as he looked Kensuke in the eye.

"I know it's hard to see where this is all headed, these things I do, but like I told you, like I've sworn to you, to _myself_, we'll make them pay _thrice-fold_ for what they did to us…to your folks…to Misato…to _all_ of them."

"That's the thing, right there," Kensuke said, briefly pointing at Shinji, his face grim. "All you promise is blood, man. At first, that's what I thought I wanted, sure. I thought I wanted all of them to burn on a gigantic funeral pyre, for all that they did. But I'm tired, Shinji. I just want to let it all go, start over. I'm fucking sick of the blood. And I'm sick of your promises."

"What…what do you want me to say, Kens--"

The echo of the door slamming in his face boomed in the hall.

Shinji stood where he was, his sore arms folded as he rubbed a hand across a haggard face, lips tightly pursed together as he gathered his thoughts. He walked back to the elevator, and went up to his apartment floor. Shinji felt it better to shower and clean himself up before going over to Rocco Omiglio's place of business and ask him about the money he was owed.

* * *

The black-clad Bentley rolled up to the bustling crime scene. Police officers, crime lab analysts, detectives and armed Tac-team troopers rushed to and fro, while news vans unloading cameramen and television news reporters scurried as close to the taped-off area of the parking complex as possible to film the aftermath of the carnage that took place only hours before. The rain had come, slow and steady as it pattered the sidewalks and streets.

The driver got out and opened an umbrella as he opened the back passenger door. A tall man in a dark brown suit and a grey trench-coat stepped out, pushing up his spectacles with his index finger before reaching back into to the car.

A slender feminine hand grasped his, glossy red-painted fingernails shining in the streetlights. She made her way out of the car, coming up to her full height in the gloom of the early evening. Her long overcoat was black and flapping in the slight breeze that made the rain that much more uncomfortable, a glimpse of her dark grey business suit being seen. Her short blonde locks fluttered in the wind, eyes squinting as she addressed the approaching officer.

"Dr. Ritsuko Akagi and Dr. Julian Fairchild, National Security Agency," she said briskly as she held up her photo ID placard. "Who's in charge here?"

"Commissioner McNamara is inside, on the first floor. Can't miss him, he's the one cursing his head off," the officer grunted as he pointed back to the parking complex.

"A full-fledged fire-fight breaks out in a goddamn parking lot in _my_ city, you're sure as shit on your shoe-heel I'm gonna be pissed, sergeant!"

Ritsuko and the officer turned in the direction of the voice, while Dr. Fairchild pushed his way past them both and walked up briskly to a squat, pudgy man in his fifties with a bushy brown mustache and a receding hair-line. The taller, slimmer Dr. Fairchild towered over the commissioner. Commissioner James T. McNamara made a low grunt of acknowledgement to Fairchild as he studied the man in front of him. His jet black hair was well kept, and the cold grey-blue eyes behind the glasses he wore betrayed no emotion, save for what McNamara thought might have been almost casual indifference.

"Hi, welcome to New York," McNamara said, his anger barely containable, or concealable. "Now that we got the pleasantries out of the way, maybe you can enlighten me as to just what the fuck overflowed over the rim in there, mister…?"

Dr. Fairchild stuck his hand out as Ritsuko made her way over to the two of them, in hope of being able to keep things as calm as possible. "Good evening, Commissioner McNamara, I am Doctor Julian Fairchild, director of special projects for the National Security Agency at our Region One headquarters. I'm…truly distressed we have to meet under these circumstances, Commissioner," Dr. Fairchild said in a low, smooth voice.

"Duly noted, Doctor Fairchild. But before we get to the whole 'none of this ever happened' bullshit you government boys are so fond of, can somebody tell me why I've lost five of my guys and am short a helicopter?" Commissioner McNamara bristled.

"An outside gun came and shot this op to high hell, that's fuckin' how," a man's voice answered from behind the Commissioner. The trio turned to see Reid, Harris, and Asuka standing in the rain, collectively scowling at McNamara. Reid, at the front of the group, spoke again as he lit a cigarette. "With all due respect, of course, Commissioner, it's not like we _enjoy_ watching your men die, or having our asses handed to us. You saw the mess back in there for yourself. Somebody capable of a fine shit-storm like that is obviously not some rival thug with a Beretta from around the corner."

"In short, we _were_ handling our business, just as much as your boys were handling theirs," Asuka spat out, the words harsh and biting.

The Commissioner returned her glare as he addressed them. "Yeah, and a fine fucking job you've done of that, from the looks of it," he hissed, jabbing a finger in Asuka's direction. "Aren't you guys supposed to be specially trained or something, so you can handle that kinda shit? You know, like Navy SEALs with neck-ties? "

"Fat, little cocksucker," Asuka growled as she stepped forward menacingly, fists balled tightly and rising, "You think I give a fuck you got all these cops around? Let's see these Krispy-Kreme eating fucks reattach that finger--"

Dr. Fairchild pulled the furious police commissioner aside, speaking to Ritsuko over his shoulder.

"Dr. Akagi, deal with the child. The commissioner and I have much to discuss. Once again, my apologies for that small mishap just now, commissioner. I'm loathe to say that even my agency has its share of incompetence at points…"

Asuka froze where she stood, so livid her whole frame shook. Her knuckles were bone white in their vice-like grip. "In-incompetence?...'Child'?! What the _fuck_?!"

Harris closed his eyes and let his head hang back, all the while shaking his head. " 'What the fuck' is right, Asuka. As in, what the fuck are you tryin' to do, squarin' off with that fat prick like that? I ain't know about you, but _I_ don't want to shove paper around a fuckin' desk from dusk to daybreak jus' 'cuz you knocked a fat cracka out, okay?"

"Agent Reid." The voice was terse and low.

Reid shot Asuka a glowering look, then turned to face Ritsuko. He pursed his lips, speaking through his teeth. "Dr. Akagi. I assure you--"

"Not interested, shut up. Glaring failure to capture, ahem, to complete the task assigned to you _aside_, Agent Reid, I want you to know that all, I repeat for clarity, _ALL_ agents in the field are to exemplify the kind of discipline befitting National Security Agency personnel at all times, and _not_ attempt to assault any members of the civilian sector without due cause. Let me know now if I wasn't being clear enough."

Reid, Asuka, and Harris stood stone-faced in the rain as they answered in unison. "No, Ma'am."

"Alright, then. Although I'm reluctant to say it, you've all been reassigned. I will brief the members of this outfit separately on any further details related to their assignments. Any questions?"

"Reassigned? Why?" Harris asked, images of shuffling paper into inboxes and outboxes assailing his thoughts.

"After a review of the current mission you've all been tasked with, Dr. Fairchild feels that a simple drug-trafficking operation is more the jurisdiction of other agencies such as the FBI or DEA. Aside from that, you're all needed on the assignments to follow."

No one in Asuka's team said a word, but the mood had once again shifted. Reid continued to look directly at Ritsuko, his face baring no expression other than mild annoyance. Harris looked away, shoving one hand in his pant pocket while rubbing the back of his neck furiously with the other.

Asuka counted to thirty. When she reached twenty-seven and realized the anger had not yet dissipated, she decided to count to seventy-five.

Ritsuko looked at all of them, gauging their reactions before moving on. "All of you are to remain active in the New York area. We already have some safe-houses set up for all of you, and we have already contacted the local authorities to let them know you're operating here, and to cooperate with all of you in any way they can."

Ritsuko reached in her coat and pulled out two manila envelopes. She handed them to Reid and Harris, who eyed the folders wearily. "Your assignments, gentlemen. You've been paired together, once again."

"Fuck, Harris, I swear to God Almighty you're like crabs or something, can't get rid of your ass," Reid chuckled as he turned the envelope over in his hands.

Harris smiled broadly as he accepted his envelope. "Funny, I was thinking the same thing, grand-pa," he shot back.

Ignoring Harris and Reid's banter, Ritsuko turned to Asuka, another manila envelope in her hand. "Agent Soryu, you are tasked with a different assignment. Follow me."

Asuka stood glaring at her for a second before she brought her feet to move in Ritsuko's direction. "Wait up for me, guys," Asuka said over her shoulder to Harris and Reid, who both nodded an affirmation.

Walking into the shelter of the parking garage from the cold rain, Asuka and Ritsuko kept a slow and steady pace with each other. When Ritsuko faced the former pilot of Evangelion Unit-02, she made a quiet observation of the distance Asuka actually kept from her, which Ritsuko judged to be about two and a half feet.

"Look," Ritsuko said, ignoring the tension between them, "This next assignment…I'm not going to lie to you. This could prove very difficult for you to handle. Granted, your experience in previous operations so far has been stellar--"

"I know I'm damn good at what I do already, ma'am. I really don't need the blatant ass-kissing."

Ritsuko icily countered Asuka's glare with one of her own, shuffling her body weight on her left foot in the tense silence that immediately followed. Despite the years, she still seemed to retain the brash arrogance of her teen years. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she spoke.

"None of the missions you've been on have involved your…_our_ past, that I can assure you, so before you persist in wasting my time with more of your arrogant, hot-shot bullshit, shut your mouth and listen to every word I have to say."

Asuka wrinkled her brow in confusion. She eyed the envelope guardedly, then looked back up at Ritsuko. She hesitated to draw her fingers close to the small metal tabs that would open the envelope, but brought her fingers to respond all the same.

"Don't open till you reach your new apartment. That's an order," Ritsuko admonished, raising a solitary finger. Asuka's fingers returned to the sides of the envelope, pinching the paper tightly between her fingertips.

Asuka's hands trembled violently, but she couldn't feel them. They went numb.

Ritsuko glanced at Asuka's hands, then started to fumble around in her coat pockets. "Would you like a cigarette, Agent Soryu?" she asked as she gracefully plucked a Marlboro Light from its carton, placed it between her lips and lit it in one motion.

"I have people pelting bullets my way on a frequent basis, ma'am. I think I'll skip out on one more thing that'll kill me." Asuka's voice and glare remained steady, if not betraying a slight tone of irritancy. It was her hands, managing to tremble a little slower than before, that let Ritsuko know Asuka was putting up a front.

Ritsuko sized Asuka up before deciding to continue, wondering if the slightly shorter redhead in front of her was capable of maintaining her composure. She had known about, and at times-for Asuka's own good, she told herself-even added to the former Evangelion pilot's troubles in her trying and difficult life since their surviving the fall of NERV all those years ago, and she knew that despite the bravado and pomp Asuka showed everyone else in her new occupation, she had always been a little unstable. Ritsuko, for some reason that nonplussed even her superior logic, felt she should at least make an effort to aid her fellow ex-NERV colleague-perhaps go as far as try to…reach out to her, much like Asuka's previous caretaker did. Ritsuko still sorely missed Asuka's former guardian, and at one time, the closest thing to Ritsuko had to a best friend, in the quiet moments before sleep drifted over her some nights.

But orders were orders, Ritsuko remembered wearily. And now, more than ever, Asuka seemed to be the only viable option for the Agency's plans to succeed.

"The Third is alive. He needs to be brought in."

It was only in the stillness of waiting for that long, cold minute to pass by did Ritsuko realize how her shoulder muscles bunched up, how taut her body really was. Asuka's lips were drawn tight, the chill blue of her pupils at once locked right onto her and yet miles away. If only for a second, Ritsuko observed how Asuka shivered slightly as she brought herself back into real-time. Asuka blinked as she brushed back strands of her hair from her face, and then looked back up at her.

Her voice, all the arrogance strangled out of it, was shaky and frail. The slim, auburn lines that made Asuka's eyebrows arched upwards slightly. The whites of her eyes became more visible as they widened faintly in disbelief.

"I don't--"

The cold blonde's eye's narrowed; her words and tone were low and cutting.

"Yes, you do."

"He's dead. He's _been_ dead ten years."

"Then you've got a zombie on your hands."

"Ten _YEARS_!!"

The laugh that scratched its way out of Ritsuko's throat startled both of them as they stood in the damp chill of the late February evening. The rain still slapped the sidewalks and streets.

"Agent Soryu…_Asuka_…you didn't _really_ believe that after all this time, after how far you've come in this dark and horrible place you've chosen to dwell in, that the one lie you would leave standing, leave unscathed in that ten-car pile-up you call your mind would be Shinji's fate, did you?"

Asuka was the first to break eye contact, when her eyes glazed over and started slowly darting to random points in the garage, the ceiling, the floor. Asuka's breathing, gentle, shallow burst, came from her mouth. She took two unsteady steps back from Ritsuko, all the time clutching the manila envelope to her chest till something in her mind comprehended exactly what it was she was holding.

The envelope landed a mere foot away from her. Asuka was frozen where she was.

Ritsuko stood motionless, taking in her colleague's reaction.

"Agent Soryu," came Dr. Akagi's gentle voice as she attempted to bring Asuka back into the realness of the moment. "Asuka. C'mon."

The fiery redhead's only perceivable movement was that of her chest heaving in and out as she made sense-or whatever passed for something remotely close to sensibility-in her head, and looked back up at Dr. Akagi. The familiar heat of her intensity seemed to return as she briskly walked over to the envelope and picked it up. Her gaze, passionate and fierce, mirrored the edge in her voice.

"Is he needed alive?"

The cigarette almost dropped out of her mouth, Ritsuko was so taken aback by Asuka's sudden change in attitude. Dr. Akagi peered at the younger woman and frowned.

"You will answer to only Dr. Fairchild and I, and it is _our_ call if Shinji needs to be taken down, _not yours_. Am I clear on that, Agent Soryu?"

"This whole _verdamnt_ time, huh? That what you meant back there when you were talking to us, about Reid's failure to capture,ahem, complete the task assigned? That is _so_ fucking like you, to lie about something like this," Asuka spat as she stepped closer to Dr. Akagi than she liked.

Ritsuko attempted to start another ice age with the chill in her stare.

"There was no need for you to know. There is now. Your are to persuade him, at first, to come along quietly. Should he prove to be difficult for you, Agents Harris and Reid will provide back-up. When the matter is resolved, call it in to me and I will send a team to retrieve you and the target. Your authorized to _only_ call me when you complete your assignment, barring Dr. Fairchild's direct intervention into the matter. Everything else we have on him is in your folder. Any questions?"

Asuka strained to keep her temper in check. "Shitloads, ma'am. But I'm too tired to hear any more of this shit."

Asuka walked back out into the rainy evening, and was relieved to see Reid and Harris argue over baseball in a blacked-out company car. The radio was on, and a pair of sportcasters on-air discussed the pros and cons of allowing athletes to use performance-enhancing drugs in matches. She looked down at the envelope and turned around to find Ritsuko still in the relative shelter of the parking garage, looking at her.

"Why's this dossier so light?", Asuka asked as she swung open the rear door to the car.

Ritsuko shrugged, exhaling smoke. "Told you it's all we have on him. Hell, we just got lucky he popped back up on the grid. The rest of the stuff in there is all the basics: your new name, new job, bank accounts, and the keys to your sweet little pad in this cozy little spot close in the upper Village. Who says this job doesn't come with perks, right?"

Ritsuko smiled and hoped to get something in the way of positive reaction from her old colleague, but was only answered by the slamming of a car-door, and the slow rumble of a motor as the car turned the corner.

* * *

Coroner's Note: Gonna take a bit of a break-I just got this gig as a freelance reporter for a weekly paper in my area, so I gotta buckle down and get all reporter-like for a while. Next 'Slug' should be good, and only a few more new faces along with some more old ones left to be thrown in the mix. Later. And thanks for reading, all of you.


	6. 6th Slug: Know Thine Enemy

-Last Call Productions Presents-

_**NGE: The Long Hard Kill**_

A/N: This one's a mix of Shinji's POV and third-person narrative.

**_6th Slug: Know Thine Enemy_**

The musty stink of the old pillowcase gets yanked off my head, and as the light trickles into my swollen right eye, a meaty fist slaps a folded copy of the _Daily News_ across it. My eye wants to burst.

"I'm a low-key kinda guy, you know," this thick _Paisan_-wannabe accent grumbles out from thick clumsy lips.

I spit out blood so I can speak. "How's it taste, Rocco-boy, eatin' your own bullshit like that? You want a Tic-Tac?"

"You know, I like you, slant. You…you talk all this surreal amount of shit for someone so small. Even after I do things like this to you."

Only the finest vintage Italian shoes ever imported crash heel-first into my face. The chair I'm tied to kicks over, and my temple meets polished marble tile floor. My head spins as I spit out more blood.

Everyone, meet Rocco Omiglio. Son of America's last surviving mafia don, Rudolpho 'The Clipper' Omiglio. See, I saved Rocco-boy's ass from presumably hanging off a meat hook on the wrong end of a buzz-saw in Jersey, ask for the money owed me, and he figures it's better to kick my ass instead.

Saw this coming. This is the typical dynamic of our business relationship, Rocco and I.

"C'mon, Rocco-boy, did you _really_ believe you could peddle _that much_ smack on daddy's doorstep without someone noticing?" I spit out more blood. "Some fantasy you're living. Look at the fuck-ups you hired, anyway. A lime-green Hummer? What next, a neon sign and ads in the paper for prime grade Mexican black-tar?"

Rocco broods in silence. He runs a tan,meaty hand through his short, gel-spiked black hair. Two of his guys smoke their grainy Marlboros just a few feet behind where I've fallen. They await his word.

"Is it all gone?" Rocco-boy asks, resignation heavy in his voice. He turns his back to me as he unfurls the newspaper in his hands and grimaces at the cover. The headline reads 'Chinatown Gunfight Kills Ten'. There's a picture of the wreck where the van met the chopper.

I phlegm out gobs of dark hemoglobin. All I taste and smell is iron and sweat. "Cops think those idiots were pushin' product on their own. All your dope got cooked to high hell, assuming that on-site forensic teams could even _tell_ what the van was carrying, it's so foo-barred from that Blackhawk crash."

"The fuck's 'foo-bar'?"

"Fucked up beyond all recognition," I spit out, along with a molar.

"…Untie this fuck, he's gettin' blood all over the marble." With that, he tosses the paper in a nearby trashcan.

His men walk over to where I've fallen and roughly yank me upright. I feel the plastic zip-ties that hold my ankles slacken as a knife cuts through them. The rush of blood back to my feet throbs and hurts, but subsides as the pins and needles feeling sets in. I wait for my wrist restraints to be cut. Rocco brushes invisible dust off his cream-colored custom-tailored Sicilian suit. You'd have to custom-make a suit for someone with Rocco's shoulders. He walks out of my field of vision.

Here's the thing you need to remember about coming out of a situation like this swinging: it's all about _where_ you're about to start shit, your surroundings. Rocco, like any faithfully predictable guineau Mafioso who swears on his DVD copy of _The Godfather_, has a penchant to handle business in his backroom office/lounge of his

titty-bar on a side-street in Midtown Manhattan. Rocco, like any numbingly predictable Mafioso, has some of his guys drinking by his very own bar, two of them as far as I can see, while his other pals finish cutting me loose.

Everything in the room seems to hail from some mobster movie, and it's utterly disgusting. The walls are painted a bright red, like some goddamned Target commercial. Lavish white marble-tiled floor, white tiger-striped carpet nestled under a glass coffee table surrounded by black leather sofas and chairs, a pool table, and a big polished cherry oak desk where Rocco likes to sit, count money, do coke or get blown at.

So of course, someone left a gun on the pool table ledge.

--

Asuka's breaths came sharp and short as she rained her fists down on the punching bag she straddled, the one-two rhythm of her punches filling the gym in her apartment complex. Strands of hydrant red hair fell in front of her face, while the rest of her mane stayed up in a tight pony-tail.

Sore and swear-soaked, Asuka stood up, heaving the punching bag up with her as she reconnected it to its hook in the corner of the gym. Her knuckles felt raw, and her arms were burning. She walked over to a pair of wall-mounted handles, checked her gripping, and began to pull herself up, her arms bending at a ninety-degree angle before dipping back down again. Her calves were crossed and bent as she raised and lowered her body repetitiously. There wasn't a part of her that didn't hurt. She couldn't have cared less, didn't. When the pain and fatigue became too strong to ignore, Asuka stopped at seventy reps.

Only when a staff member from the apartment came by to let her know the gym was closing in five minutes, and really, it's been at least two hours since she came down there, and don't you want so badly to plop down on a bed and hibernate for like a year? did she stop.

Her post-workout shower wasn't bad, nor the hot bath she drew, but she knew well these were just actions people do to, supposedly to keep the façade of comfort and safety up, and so was acting accordingly.

There was no way to 'take the edge off', as Ritsuko suggested she do in a phone call made earlier in the evening, beckoning her to spend a 'girl's night out' with her. Asuka said she made plans already, and her date was going to swing by in a half hour to pick her up, her voice flat and barely a chord above monotone the whole time. Ritsuko relented, wishing her well on her date and to 'brief' her on the outcome before hanging up. Even as the last polite phrases were delivered, however, they both knew how Asuka's night was going to be spent, despite the many distractions Asuka forced herself through to not acknowledge its existence.

She was going to stay up late into the night looking at Shinji's data-file.

Asuka remembered with sterling clarity the South Pole chill that crawled through her spine when she found out about him, involuntarily rubbing her shoulders for warmth in the hot bath.

The fact she believed Ritsuko and the rest of her NSA colleagues that he never made it out of the NERV slaughter the day of her rescue was laughable, she thought in the bitter somberness of hindsight. She had felt him alive, all this time, but played stupid all too willingly. There were some people, Asuka finally understood one morning she spent watching the sun rise and spill orange-gold rays of light upon her new home city, that were best left to fade with the passage of time. To Asuka, that meant everyone she ever met in Tokyo-3, back when car horns and construction sounds filled the morning air, instead of the catacomb-esque silence that suffocated its ruins.

The city was as dead as the thoughts and memories of its inhabitants to her.

There were reminders. Ritsuko for one, which she found herself resenting with only the slightest hints of guilt from time to time, inadvertently brought back more baggage inside her than she would like to admit. Upon their first re-introductory meeting, Asuka was horrified to catch herself irritably picking at invisible A-10 neural plugs from her hair out of instinct.

During a visit to the Modern Museum of Art one weekend she had off from work a few months ago (visiting museums was something people do, so she did her best to emulate the status quo), she was walking past this quirky pseudo-S&M fashion exhibit that was up, and she was halfway through this section on corsets made from all sorts of materials (the American addiction to sex was something she'd never fully understand, since everyone but her seemed to be getting it, so why harp on it?), when she saw a glossy red stretch vinyl body suit, skin-tight and made to fit that faceless mannequin perfect, but it was so stupid, just so fucking stupid that anyone would ever wear anything like that, and she needed to get air because it was so fucking hot and stuffy in there…and the fucking heat, god damn it all, made her eyes tear, and she was just, just so fucking embarrassed that she started crying, so she had to leave. She spent that whole afternoon back at her old Queens apartment just being a stupid fucking _girl_, just crying till she slept. She stayed in the rest of her weekend.

But she had done so well, these past few years-the government doctors and shrinks told her so. That irrelevant little incident back at MoMA aside, she was healing. So very few nightmares drifted to her nowadays, and she was being taken off her medications with what seemed like the frequency of every three months. Sure, there were rough days and good days, and days she'd rather forget altogether, but it was always like that before you finally got better. And Asuka was hell-bent on getting better.

Now this.

Asuka toweled off, emptied the tub, and walked over to the kitchen area of her apartment and opened the fridge, taking out a microwave dinner. She popped in the microwave, waited a minute after the bell went off before she pulled her dinner-chicken Alfredo-out and onto the small countertop. She reached into the fridge again, pulled out a bottle of white zinfandel. Wine had been a relatively new indulgence in Asuka's life, and she must say, she had grown rather fond of it, and the warm, amiable feeling it gave her. She began to understand why Misa—

She pulled the fridge door open again and put the wine back, grabbing a Coke can instead.

Asuka reminded herself she needed the clarity of sobriety to understand what she was dealing with, anyway.

Chicken Alfredo and Coke can in hands, Asuka made her way over to the living room area of her suite, setting her dinner down on the mahogany-framed glass coffee table before plopping down on the plush beige leather sofa. Next to her meal, excluding the cover story papers she leafed through earlier- she was now Rachel Hawkins, for the moment-lay the manila envelope with whatever information the NSA had on her new target.

Jaw muscles taut the whole time, Asuka forced her right arm to extend, her hand to open and retrieve the envelope. She found it hard to breathe steadily when she pulled out a dark brown folder, the word 'confidential' stamped in red ink on the front of it. "This is fucking ridiculous," Asuka muttered aloud, her icy, clammy hands following familiar motions as they opened the dossier.

--

Two outta four of Rocco-boy's guys won't be walking or holding any glasses of scotch anytime soon, thanks to me. The guy who cut me loose, I broke his left wrist after I barreled the back of my heel into his pal's stones. Only when I heard the familiar crack and cry of a bone broken, did I focus back on the other goombah, kicking his knee in. Once again, the snap of bone brings back so many memories of fights too close for comfort, too exhilarating to let end quickly. The other two, a fat guy with a pedo-stache and sunglasses and a skinny fella with slicked back hair and a bleach blonde goatee, are up and scrambling for me.

It's not long till I've made my way to the pool table. Same goes for them. First thing that's in my hands I turn to a weapon, and lucky me, it's a pool stick. The thick end breaks across Fatty's jawline as I swing for the fences. I hoist up the nine-ball and bean it hard into the other guy's dick, and from the agonized groan he lets out, I take it I found my mark just fine. All this, and no sign of--

KA-KLAKK!

"Knew it. Fuckin' KNEW you'd pull some fuckin' shit like this," Rocco-boy shrills at me from behind, dual barrels of a sawed-off shotgun digging into the back of my skull. I keep forgetting how fast he really is, even with all that muscle. The gun on the pool table ledge glistens in the light in front of me. I'd never even reach the grip, take my word on this.

"Before I empty dual wads of buckshot into your dome, I'ma tell you something."

"You coming outta that closet, Rocco?"

"Know why I don't ask you what you want on your tombstone, you cunt-eyed fuck?"

That's Rocco-boy all over for you: even with a sawed-off boom-stick in hand, he finds a way to make himself look like a fucking idiot. I don't hold back the chuckle.

"Two guesses: one, you're gonna chop me up and send the parts to the meat-packing district later tonight, or number two, you've been dying to show me your idea of what a pizza's sausage topping should be?"

The first option's no joke-it's an old play Rocco-boy learned from watching his dad at work that he's warmed up to over the years. Since I've found that out, I've switched over to ramen.

"…MotherFUCKER!! I'm gonna wear your teeth as a necklace on top of my chains, with your cocksuckin' tongue as the centerpiece!"

The door creaks open. I don't see but rather feel Rocco tense up before he wheels me around and rams the handle of the shotgun into my temple. I meet the floor again.

"Poppa, you shouldn't be outta your chair--"

A voice, high-pitched and bathed in old Brooklynite Italian shoots back at him. "Yeah, well, _you_ shouldn't be sellin' smack wit' them hoodrats, but you didn't give a fuck, didn't ya? Ya wanted your money, like ya fuckin' don't got plenty right here. That man there, on the floor, he saved your ass. The fuck was you thinkin', sellin' that shit so close to home?"

The trick to getting up after a hit like that is to do it as slowly as possible. Everything in my vision rocks and blurs as I reach for the pool table ledge. When it clears enough, I notice the sawed-off on the pool table and visibly flustered Rocco-boy facing a man seemingly carved out of marble. The same height as Rocco, The Clipper still looks like he can fuck up men much, much younger than him. He offers a hand in my direction.

"Once again, Mister Ikari, I find myself in your debt for makin' sure my snot-nosed, ungrateful prostate tumor of a son ain't peddlin' dope like some fuckin' Puerto Rican."

His warm, calloused hand is deceivingly strong as we shake. Clipper's smile is something else entirely- neither the reaper nor the devil himself would even come close to making me feel like a mouse caught in a viper's hungry stare like Clipper can. Seeing him do it now, it's a small wonder I haven't reached for the shotgun.

"You never cease to amaze me with how well-informed you keep yourself," I say to him, hoping my teeth aren't gritted too tightly. This archaic motherfucker has eyes and ears everywhere, of course he knew all along about Rocco-boy's dealings. There isn't a stoolie on this whole island that doesn't call The Clipper at the smallest bit of interesting news. If this affects my cash reward in the least, Clipper better start calling funeral homes for Rocco. I'll do him in right here, and gut the old man last.

"The dock guys, huh? Was it them?" Rocco spits out, his face brick red with fury. I don't blame him much. It sucks to get ratted on.

"Kiddo, I been workin' this town long before I decided to make ya. There ain't much a thing ya've done that I don't know about, nor anything ya can do about it, so stop with the man-made rain, _capische_? By the way, I believe," Clipper says as he snaps his fingers, signaling another crony of theirs to bring in his wheel-chair, "that you owe the esteemed Mister Ikari a hefty sum of paper. Give him one of the cases, Rocco."

Rocco-boy turns and glares at me, his face livid. After a moment of trying to light me on fire with his eyes, he reaches under the pool table and brings up a large dark brown suitcase and lays it flat on the green felt of the table. I look at the suitcase, then back up at Rocco-boy and The Clipper. That smile appears again as he speaks.

"I hope my boy was no real trouble to ya, Shinji. Besides, you can take a hit or three, it seems."

"…Nah, Mister Omiglio--"

"Please, Shinji…call me 'Clipper'," the old bastard says, his jackal's smile cracking wider than usual.

"Alright...'Clipper'. Your 'roid-raging son was no big threat to me." I look at Rocco-boy, our eyes narrowing as they meet. "No big threat at all."

I nonchalantly pick up the gun I was trying so hard to get to before, and look right at them as I thumb back the hammer, and put a round in the suitcase. Way I see it, if they're out to fuck me, the tow of them, then better make it a gang-fuck and blow us all to hell.

"THE FUCK ARE YOU DOIN'?!" Rocco-boy screams. The Clipper, he stays practically the same, save for a raised eyebrow. Hell, I think he's amused.

We're all not dead-yet. I flip the suitcase over and shoot it again. No bang-must be money. I open it in front of them, casually dumping out the cash on the table. Ah, there's the devil in the details.

"This is only half," I say, looking up at Clipper. "This right here, it's nice, and I want someone to bring me a shopping bag to put it in, but it's certainly not three hundred thousand."

"It certainly wasn't a 'clean-up' job you did back in the garage. After all, my boy, as much as a should-have-been-hand-job as he is, _did_ say to make it a quiet operation…and guys like us know quiet jobs, right, Shinji?"

Why I can't wait to kill Clipper: he knows too much. Calling me by my real name, referring to my…my background…the old man has to go. For now, though, I'm more worried about my paycheck. The kid with the bleached goatee cautiously, or painfully, I haven't made up my mind yet-walks up to me with a brown paper bag. I get to work stuffing the money in the bag. When I'm done, I look around the room and I see something I might be able to use. Bag in hand, I walk over to it, and pluck it off the wall.

"This is mine now," I tell them. "This is coming with me."

"You fuckin' outta you're mind? You're not walkin' outta here with that," Clipper warns, a finger raised in alarm.

"Gotta collect what's owed me somehow. So why not ask 'The Chairman of the Board' for some help on this matter, am I right?"

"Frank Sinatra, God rest his soul, signed that for me during one of his visits to my estate in 1962. If you think I'm gonna stand by as you take Frank's signed picture off that wall, then I've given you too much credit for being smarter than you really are," Clipper rasps as he sits back down in his wheelchair.

"So I'm getting my money, then?"

"Like fuck you are," Rocco-boy grumbles.

"Well then, say bye to Franky."

"We'll shoot ya before ya reach the end of that there pool table," Clipper says.

"Clipper. Look around you. If it comes down to a gun-fight in here, we all know who's walking away from that mess, and who's not rolling out." It's all facial muscle control, really-that, and hoping they don't call my bluff. Clipper glares at me, remains silent as goatee-boy reaches slowly for his piece. The gun's still in my reach.

"…Give him the cash."

"Pop!--"

"It's not a fuckin' request, _stoonad_, just give him the fuckin' money!"

"Un-fucking-believable!"

Another suitcase opens, gets emptied into my bag. This is just beautiful. I hang the Sinatra picture back on the wall, and am almost out the door when Clipper opens his mouth and ruins my week.

"Check your email later, there's a rat that needs killing for me. You remember our agreement."

I stop in my tracks like I'm glued to the spot. Fucking old cocksucker.

"Sure. How could I forget?"

"Doesn't pay to be so famous with the government, am I right, Mister Ikari?"

I don't say another word as I walk out of that dirty excuse for a strip club. Brown bag full of money and blood-stained face, I catch the local no.3 train to Canal Street, and walk the rest of the way back home.

Fucking old cocksucker.

* * *

Coroner's note: Been a while, but I'm back. Next slug coming soon, hopefully.

I'm looking a female reader who thinks they have a good handle on Asuka's character to discuss some things about my fic with. Looking for some insights. PM me if you're interested. Read and Review, please-love to know what people are thinking out there. Later.


	7. 7th Slug:The Curse of Memory & Hindsight

-Last Call Productions presents-

_**NGE: The Long, Hard Kill**_

_**7**__**th**__** Slug: The Curse of Memory and Hindsight.**_

_ His father always made him scrambled eggs and bacon on the weekdays. It was a ritual thing Kensuke's dad did, and although he personally didn't care much for eggs or bacon, the scents of that particular breakfast was a welcome one. This was how mornings in the Aida residence usually started, after all._

_ It was when he didn't wake to either scent was when he realized all wasn't well._

_ His father burst into his room, pulled up the camouflage-netting he draped over his bed and shook him conscious. "Kenny, wake up! Kenny, for the love of God, wake up!" Grumbling in protest, Kensuke sat upright in his bed, olive drab tank top wrinkled from the night's sleep. His personally customized dog-tag, a birthday gift from his dad on his fourteenth birthday a few months back, glinted dimly in the lamplight of his room. Rubbing sleep away from his eyes, he reached for his glasses and stared up at his father. He looked on edge, nervous. _

_ "I told you, we don't have any classes because of this state or martial law the…pop, what's wrong?"_

_ "N-No time to explain it all, Kenny. Listen, I know you know, but I just wanted to tell you how much I love you, how much your mother loved you, and nobody can take that away from you-"_

_ "…Dad, you're scaring the shit outta me," Kensuke remembered shakily breathing out, remembering the feeling of cool sweat running down the back of his neck, how his eyes widened in child-like fright._

_ "Listen, listen, listen, we don't have much time, kiddo, so I need you to do everything I say-can you do that for me, Kenny?"_

_ He recalled being so scared he started tearing, his voice high-pitched and cracking as chronic nervous stuttering mangled his speech. "D-Dad, w-w-what the f-fuck is going on? C-c-cuz right n-now, I-I-I'm s-s-seriousl-l-l-ly fr-fr-FREAKIN' !-"_

_ His father gently cupped his cheeks, his own cheeks starting to glisten with either sweat or tears-he couldn't tell. "Go into the backyard, hop over into the Otashis' backyard, and keep hopping until you reach Tokuwaga Boulevard. From there, you gotta make it to that train station by the prefecture border. Then, you gotta take the next train to Yokohama, and make your way to the Naka Ward ports. Find the Shiguro International Exports Company, and ask for a man named Taizo-skinny, old guy with glasses and a cane. Tell him that I sent you, and to go ahead with Plan A. He'll know what I mean. Stay AWAY from airports!" Kensuke watched his father then quickly leave the room, only to return shortly with Kensuke's own backpack, stuffed and bulky. "C'mon, get up and dressed. C'MON, DAMMIT!"_

_ The raw fear in his voice rousted Kensuke to his feet, quickly slipping on khakis, socks, his white sneakers. He remembered looking at his dad's face-short, dirty brown hair, a thick moustache and dark brown eyes. He put on a white button down shirt, but didn't bother buttoning it. He felt like he was five again, naïve, utterly dependant-frightened of something mysterious, terrifying. His shaking hands reached over to the backpack and lifted the flap. He looked back up at his dad. He was trying, trying so hard not to hyperventilate. "W-W-why is th-th-th-there ca-ca-cash an-n-nd a g-gu-gu-gu-gunnn-"_

_ "C'mon, Kenny, we gotta get you outta here while nobody's watching. For this to work for us, kiddo, we gotta leave at the same time. Go into my room and hop out the window to the backyard."_

_ "Who-who's…who's…?"_

_ "…I…I…I'll tell you tonight, how about that?" Kensuke's father forced a smile on his face. It was then that Kensuke knew this would be their last conversation together. He couldn't help himself-Kensuke started to sob. Kensuke's father held him so close it hurt. Kensuke didn't mind at all. _

_ "I love you, Kensuke, no matter what happens, I'll always carry you in my heart."_

_ "I-I-I ll-love you too, daddy," Kensuke whimpered out. "We can g-go together-"_

_ "NO! No, they'll kill us both, Kenny, they'll kill us both…"_

_ Kensuke spun around as much as his father's embrace allowed to face him, with wet, red eyes. "WHO'S THEY? WHO'S THEY?"_

_ "…The government, Kensuke. The government's after all NERV personnel. I hacked into the JSSDF database and saw the orders myself. They're also going to kill any and all family members closest to anyone involved with NERV. They…they're calling it a 'clean purge'."_

_ "You've got to tell someone! NERV security-"_

_ "They've tapped our phones, our emails. There's no way we can tell anyone without them killing us first. I gotta do it in person…who knows; maybe I can get there in time to warn everyone…."_

_ Kensuke heard his own voice crack as his speech mutated into a hoarse, high-pitched sob. He remembered sounding weak, small._

_ "…I don't want you to die, daddy, I don't want you to die…"_

_ Kensuke's father kissed the top of his son's head twice as the tears started to stream down. "I want you to live, that's all that matters. If you live a good life, if you live a life you can look back on with no regrets, then I'll have done my job as a man-as a father." He looked at his watch. It took a moment for him to break his embrace around his son. "Okay, it's now or never. My laptop's under all the money-it's got all the info on what's really going at NERV, what the Evas are. Show it to Taizo, he'll help you out from there. But we got to leave now."_

_ Kensuke had no shame in crying, kissing his father's cheeks furiously as gave him a quick, strong hug before gathering his things and running into his father's room. He propped the window open and looked back, trying to hear something, anything from his father. There was stillness. _

_ "Goodbye, Kenny! I love you," he heard his father say as the front door slammed, much like he would on a typical weekday morning. Kensuke sat on the window-sill for a moment, wiping away tears and mucus on a sleeve before sliding off onto the grass of his backyard.

* * *

_

Kensuke Aida hadn't bothered with shaving, and he knew the head nurse in the ICU at New York University Hospital was going to give him hell for it, but he couldn't give less of a shit. There wasn't much Kensuke gave a shit about, nowadays. Right now, he was hungry, and he was making breakfast. He barely looked up through his window to notice the first rays of sunlight breaking through the morning gloom. The coffeemaker on the kitchen counter gurgled and grumbled. Kensuke broke a pair of eggs in a bowl and poured a little milk in the mix, along with just enough salt to give it that kick he liked, and stirred it with a fork. When he felt it was good enough a mix, Kensuke dumped the contents into a waiting oiled skillet on the stove and listened to the sound of the mix meeting heated metal.

When it started to form a thick, solid lump, he broke up the eggs and stirred them, occasionally jolting the pan up so the eggs would flip up a little. He then quickly dumped out the eggs onto a waiting plate, poured a little more oil into the skillet and slapped in two fat strips of bacon. The smell of it cooking helped him wake up, he felt, and was a necessary part of his day that needed to be in place, just like everything else in his life had been locked into a formulaic system. It didn't take too long for the strips to cook, and he was thankful for that, more out of time-saving appreciation than actual hunger. Dumping the strips on the plate, he turned off the stove and slid his right palm under his breakfast plate, made his way to the coffeemaker and poured himself a hot mug of straight-black coffee-he liked the bitterness of all-black, as it matched the salty flavors of eggs and bacon well, he thought.

Mug and plate in hands, Kensuke made his way over to the round kitchen table, sat, made sure there was no trace of neither egg or bacon left on his plate. He pushed the plate away, took a sip of his coffee, and set it aside. Not blinking, not doing much of anything save for thinking, Kensuke sat still before angrily slapping the ceramic mug to the floor, shattering it. He propped his elbows on the tabletop, his face contorted from sobbing, and held his head in his hands.

This was how mornings in the Aida residence usually started.

* * *

Shinji Ikari _had_ a way to deal with his life-long issue of loneliness. He ignored it on a daily basis, had done so since he, like the rest of the world at large, discovered their miraculous survival from Third Impact. It wasn't an easy thing to do-it was a necessary thing to do. Like everything else Shinji took time to practice and hone, he became good at it. Unlike everything else he took time to practice, there were days he couldn't stand it, the solitude sometimes suffocating almost all thought. Shinji, loathe as he was to admit it, realized it was when he was horny that he sometimes felt the most lonesome.

Right now, lying between sheets in the early darkness before morning, Shinji Ikari was burning with lust. He didn't bother setting his alarm clock-he had been up all night. Lust left him emotionally drained; he certainly wasn't complaining about wanting to fuck any of the very pretty young women that frequented his neighborhood. He reckoned it wouldn't even be that hard-he'd keep his mouth shut for the most part, let them do the talking. Slip in a few flirtatious comments about their shoes, that dress, those earrings, present himself as mysterious and confidently aloof, all the while keeping her with drink in hand, and he figured much sooner than later he'd be rewarded for his efforts with pussy. He had felt the eyes of more than a few ladies on him as walked past them daily, was sure they had him in their gaze for longer than a second or two. The main problem lied in _who_ he lusted for.

He had realized this one night three years back while drinking one scotch glass too many at a Bowery bar. It was a chilly November evening, and it looked like rain was on its way. He was way past shit-faced at the bar counter when a lady sat next to him, the scent of raspberries washing over his scotch-addled senses. Shinji looked over, and saw a lady with fire engine red hair and blue eyes. But the chin was all wrong-it was too boxy, and her nose was bigger, and she was just _old_. He vaguely remembered muttering something about not knowing he was in a drag-queen bar, because she really did overdo it on the make-up. Naturally, she was screaming and cursing, but Shinji was already out the door, anyway…

On the subway ride home-Shinji didn't like taking out the '72 Charger much because it was harder hiding a car from cops or other possible gun-toting assailants than it was to hide himself-he drunkenly stumbled into a tall woman with a cherry red leather jacket and raven black hair, and he stared at her just to make sure he had bumped into a stranger. She cursed back at him in Chinese, her face a little rounder than…who he thought she might have been. His eyes caught her chest size, and noticed they were about a size smaller than they should have been. He pushed past her and sat in the back of the subway car, drifting in and out of sleep, thinking of women, thinking of sex, thinking of loneliness. He was lucky enough to drift back to wakefulness a full stop before the Canal Street stop, and arrived awake enough to walk past the bored police officers on their beat straight enough before turning the corner to the stairwell where he puked.

A girl with long flowing brown hair and coffee-tinted sunglasses (at night?) was staring at him when he got out into the open sidewalks of Chinatown again. The rain had broken over the city streets and came down in sheets. Everything was fuzzy enough in his vision already, and the rain kept hitting his eyes, but he thought, he swore to God, he thought he saw Hikari glaring at him from across the street with utter disgust. "…H..hey. Hey…Hikari? Hikari? Wait!"

He was a quarter of the way across the street when a cab nearly barreled him down, forcing him to stumble back and land in a huge puddle of murky water. Shinji looked up-she was gone.

It was in the shower, trying to not think of women and how he wanted one in the worst of ways that he thought about his encounters. Shinji then thought about his lurid dreams in the subway car. It was too sickeningly simple: the women he really lusted over, would give up the past ten years of his life to spend one night of passion with, were dead. They wouldn't have wanted to be in the same sentence with him if they were still alive anyway, he brooded. He barely noticed his pillow was damp the morning after.

Shinji, lying corpse still as he studied the ceiling-a habit he never grew out of, he barley cared to recognize, rubbed his eyes and brought his bleary eyes to the clock. He then slowly brushed away the covers from his body. The morning cold always seemed to creep into his room, but in the cool gloom of pre-dawn he embraced the stark sharpness of the chill. Lying on his bed in black boxer shorts, Shinji let the somberness the cold brought with it wash over his skin, settle into his bones. He slid a hand under his pillow, and wrapped his fingers around his customized Colt .45, and rose from his bed.

Walking over to his walk-in closet, Shinji grabbed his work-out gear-little more than a pair of black shorts and sneakers, with fingerless grip gloves in a duffel bag-and headed out of his apartment.

* * *

A/N: So I've been away for two or so years. In that time, Gainax and I.G Productions have started making this EVA remake on the big screen in Japan. I have to see how this plays out, decide whether or not to add the new characters in or not, and above all else, finish this fucker. Read and review. Thanks.


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